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THE 


DXIAMATICK WORKS 


OF 


JOSEPH ADDISON. 


WITH 


TIIE AUTHOUR’S POEMS, 


ON 


SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 


BOSTON : 

PRINTED BY SNELLING AND SIMONS, 

R J. W. ARMSTRONG, NO. 4 , EXCH ANGE-BU ILDINGS 
DEVON SHIRE-STREET, 


1808 . 






S' 


* 

<* 






. 

A ‘ 



■ 




















CATO. 


A TRAGEDY. 








PROLOGUE. 


TO wake the soul by tender strokes of art, 
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart, 

To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, 

Live o’er each scene, and be what they behold ; 
For this the tragick Muse first trod the stage, 
Commanding tears to stream through every age ; 
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 

And foes to virtue wonder’d how they wept. 

Our Authour shuns by vulgar springs to move 
The hero’s glory or the virgin’s love : 

In pitying love we but our weakness show, 

And wild ambition well deserves its vvoe. 

Here tears shall flow from a more gen’rous cause. 
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : 

He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, 

And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. 
Virtue confess’d in human shape he draws ; 

What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : 

No common object to your sight displays, 

But what with pleasure Heav’n itself surveys ; 

A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, 

And greatly falling with a falling state ! 

While Cato gives his little Senate laws, 

What bosom beats not in his country’s cause ? 
Who sees him act, but envies ev’ry. deed ? 

Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed ? 
Ev’n when proud Caesar ’midst triumphal cars, 

The spoils of nations and the pomp of wars, 
Ignobly vain and impotently great, 

Show’d Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state. 

As her dead father’s reverend image past, 

The pomp was darken’d, and the day o’ercast: 


Q 


PROLOGUE. 


The triumph ceas’d ; tears gush’d from ev’ry eye ; 
The world’s great victor pass’d unheeded by ; 

Her last good man dejected Rome ador’d, 

And honour'd Caesar’s, less than Cato’s sword. 

Britons attend : be worth like this approv’d^ 

And show you have the virtue to be mov’d. 

With honest scorn the first fam’d Cato view’d 
Rome learning arts from Greece whom she subdued. 
Our scene precariously subsists too long 
On French translation, and Italian song. 

Dare to have sense yourselves ; assert the stage, 

Be justly warm’d with your own native rage. 

Such Plays alone should please a British ear. 

As Cato’s self had not disdain’d to hear. 





DRAMATIS PERSONS. 


MEN. 


Cato. 

Lucius, a Senator. 

Semproniug, a Senator. 

Juba, Prince of Numidia. 

Syphax, General of the Numidians. 

PORT.US,! ^ of c 

Marcus, J j 

Decius, Ambassador from Casar. 

Mutineers , Guards , &c. 


WOMEN. 

Marcia, Daughter to Cato . 

Lucia, Daughter to Lucius . 

SCENE f a large Hall in the Governour’s Palace of Utica. 


CATO, 


wMtoymwM* 


ACT I. SCENE I. 

Portius, Marcus. 

Portius. THE dawn is overcast, the morning Iow*r? ; 
And heavily in clouds brings on the day , 4 
The great, th’ important day, big with the fate 
•Of Cato and of Rome. Our father’s death 
Would fillup all the guilt of civil war. 

And close the scene of blood. Already Caesar 
Has ravag’d more than half the globe, and sees 
Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword : 

Should he go further, numbers would be wanting 
To form new battles, and support his crimes. 

Ye gods, what havock does ambition make 
Among your works ! 

Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius, 

Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Caesar, 

In the calm lights of mild philosophy : 

I’m tortur’d ev’n to madness when I think 

On the proud victor ; ev’ry time he’s nam’d 

Pharsalia rises to my view ! I see 

Th’ insulting tyrant prancing o’er the field 

Strow’d with Rome s citizens, and drench’d in slaughter* 

Plis horses’ hoofs wet with Patrician blood ! 

Oh Portius, is there not some chosen curse. 

Some hidden thunder in the stores of heav’n. 

Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man 
Who owes his greatness to his country’s ruin \ 

B 



10 


CATO. 


[Act I. 


Por. Believe me, Marcus, ’tis an impious greatness, 
And mix’d with too much horrour to be envied. 

How does the lustre of our father’s actions, 

Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, 

Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness ! 
His suff’rings shine, and spread a glory round him ; 
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause 
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome. 

His sword ne’er fell but on the guilty head ; 

Oppression, tyranny and pow’r usurp'd, 

D raw all the vengeance of his arm upon ’em. 

Marc. Who knows not this ? But what can Cato do 
Against a world, a base degen’rate world, 

That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Caesar ? 
Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms 
A poor epitome of Roman greatness, 

And, cover’d with Numidian guards, directs 
A feeble army, and an empty senate, 

Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain. 

By Heav’ns, such virtues, join’d with such success, 
Distract my very soul : our father’s fortune 
Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts. 

Por. Remember what our father oft has told us : 

The ways of Heav’n are dark and intricate ; 

Puzzled in mazes, and perplex d with errors ; 

Our understanding traces ’em in vain, 

Lost and bewilder’d in the fruitless search : 

Nor sees with how much art the windings run. 

Nor where the regular confusion ends. 

Marc. These are suggestions of a mind at ease : 

Oh Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs 
That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly : 
Passion unpity’d, and successless love 
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate 

My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind !- 

Por. Thou seest not that thy brother is thy rival: 
But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Aside* 
Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue’s on the proof: 

Put forth thy utmost strength, work cv’ry nerve 
And call up all thy father in thy soul : 

To quell the tyrant Love, and guard thy heart 



CATO. 


U 


Act 1.] 

On this weak side, where most our nature fails, 

Would be a conquest worthy Cato’s eon. 

Marc. Portius, the counsel which I cannot take, 
Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness. 

Bid me for honour plunge into a war 
Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death, 

Then shalt thou see that Marcus is not slow 
To follow glory, and confess his father. 

Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost 
In high ambition and a thirst of greatness ; 

’Tis second life, it grows into the soul, 

Warms ev’ry vein, and beats in ev’ry pulse ; 

I feel it here : my resolution melts- 

For. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince 1 
With how much care he forms himself to glory, 

And breaks the fierceness of his native temper 
To copy out our father’s bright example. 

He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her. 

His eyes, his looks, his actions, all betray it : 

But still the smother’d fondness burns within him. 

When most it swells and labours for a vent, 

The sense of honour and desire of fame 
Drive the big passion back into his heart. 

What ! shall an African, shall Juba’s heir 
Reproach great Cato’s son, and shew the world 
A virtue wanting in a Roman soul ? 

Marc . Portius, no more ! your words leave stings 
behind ’em. 

Whene’er did Juba, or did Portius, show 
A virtue that has cast me at a distance, 

And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour ? 

Por. Marcus, I know thy gen rous temper well; 
Fling but th’ appearance of dishonour on it, 

It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze. 

Marc. A brother’s suff’rings claim a brother’s pity. 
Por. Heav’n knows I pity thee : behold my eyes 
Ev’n whilst I speak ; do they not swim in tears ? 

Were but my heart as naked to thy view, 

Marcus would see it bleed in his behalf. 

Marc. Why then doft’ treat me with rebukes, instead 
Of kind condoling cares, and friendly sorrow ! 


CATO. 


[ Act I. 


i-2 


Por. O Marcus, did I know the way to ease 
Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains, 

Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it. 

Marc. Thou best of brothers, and thou best of friends F 
Pardon a weak distemper’d soul, that swells 
With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in calms, 

The sport of passions. But Sempronius comes : 

He must not find this softness hanging on me. [Exit* 

SCENE II. 

Enter Sempronius. 

Semp. Conspiracies no sooner should be form’d 
Than executed. What means Portius here ? 

I like not that cold youth, I must dissemble, 

And speak a language foreign to my heart. [Aside 

Sempronius, Portius. 

Good morrow, Portius ! let us once embrace, 

Once more embrace : whilst yet we both are free. 

To morrow should we thus express our friendship. 

Each might receive a slave into his arms : 

This sun, perhaps, this morning sun’s the last 
That e’er shall rise on Roman liberty. 

Por. My father has this morning call’d together 
To this poor hall his little Roman senate, 

(The leavings of Pharsalia,) to consult 

If yet he can oppose the mighty torrent 

That bears down Rome, and all her gods before it. 

Or must at length give up the world to Caesar. 

Semp. Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome 
Can raise her senate more than Cato’s presence 
His virtues render our assembly awful, 

They strike with something like religious fear, 

And make ev’n Caesar tremble at the head 
Of armies hush’d with conquest. O my Portius, 

Could I but call that wondrous man my father. 

Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious 
To thy friend’s vows, I might be blest indeed ! 

Por. Alas! Sempronius, wouldst thou talk of love 
To Marcia, whilst her father’s life’s in danger ?. 


CATO. 


13 


Act I.] 

Thou might’st as well court the pale trembling vestal 
When she beholds the holy flame expiring. 

Semp. The more I see the wonders of thy race, 

The more I’m charm’d. Thou must take heed, my 
Portius ! 

The world has all its eyes on Cato’s son. 

Thy father’s merit sets thee up to view. 

And shews thee in the fairest point of light, 

To make thy virtues or thy faults conspicuous. 

Por. Well dost thou seem to check my ling’ring here 
On this important hour. I’ll straight away, 

And while the fathers of the senate meet 
In close debate to weigh th’ events of war. 

I’ll animate the soldier’s drooping courage, 

With love of freedom and contempt of life ; 

I’ll thunder in their ears their country’s cause. 

And try to rouse up all that’s Roman in ’em. 

’Tis not in mortals to command success, 

But we’ll do more,Sempronius ; we’ll deserve it. [Exit* 

Sempronius solus. 

Curse on the stripling ! how he apes his sire ! 
Ambitiously sententious ! but I wonder 
Old Syphax comes not ; his Numidian genius 
Is well dispos’d to mischief, were he prompt 
And eager on it; but he must be spurr’d. 

And ev’ry moment quicken’d to the course. 

Cato has us’d me ill: he has refus’d 
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows. 

Besides, his baffled arms and ruin’d cause 
Are bars to my ambition. Caesar’s favour, 

That show’rs down greatness on his friends, will raise me 
To Rome’s first honours. If I give up Cato, 

I claim in my reward his captive daughter. 

But Syphax comes!- 

SCENE III. 

Enter Syphax. 

Syph. Sempronius ! all is ready. 

I’ve sounded my Numidians, man by map) 

B 2 




14 


CAT0. 


[Art r. 


And find them ripe for a revolt ; they all 
Complain aloud of Cato’s discipline, 

And wait but the command to change their master. 

Semp. Believe me, Syphax, there’s no time to waste* 
Ev’n whilst we speak our conquerour comes on, 

And gathers ground upon us ev’ry moment. 

Alas S thou know’st not Csesar’s active soul, 

With what a dreadful course he rushes on 
From war to war ! in vain has nature form’d 
Mountains and oceans to oppose his passage ; 

He bounds o’er all, victorious in his march ; 

The Alps and Pyreneans sink before him ; 

Through winds and waves and storms he works his way* 
Impatient for the battle : one day more 
Will set the victor thund’ring at our gates. 

But tell me, hast thou yet drawn o’er young Juba ? 
That still would recommend thee more to Caesar, 

And challenge better terms. 

Sypb. Alas ! he’s lost, 

He’s lost, Sempronius ; all his thoughts are full 
Of Cato’s virtues. But I’ll try once more ! 
fFor ev’ry instant I expect him here) 

If yet I can subdue those stubborn principles 
Of faith, of honour, and I know not what. 

That have corrupted his Numidian temper, 

And struck th’ infection into all his soul. 

Semp. Be sure to press upon him ev’ry motive* 

Juba’s surrender, since his father’s death, 

Would give up Afric into Caesar’s hands, 

And make him lord of half the burning zone. 

Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate 
Is call’d together ? gods ! thou must be cautious ! 

Cato has piercing- eyes, and will discern 

Our frauds, unless they’re cover’d thick with art. 

Semp. Let me alone, good Syphax, I’ll conceal 
My thoughts in passion (*tis the surest way ;) 

1 5 11 bellow out for Rome, and for my country, 

And mouth at Csesar ’till I shake the senate. 

Lour cold hypocrisy’s a stale device, 

A worn out trick : would’st thou be thought in earnest? 
Clothe thy feign’d aeal in rage ? in £re p in fury ! 


CATO. 


15 


Act I. j 

Syph. I* troth thou’rt able to instruct grey hairs, 
And teach the wily African deceit ! 

Semp. Once more, be sure to try thy skill on Juba. 
Mean while I'll hasten to my Roman soldiers, 

Inflame the mutiny, and underhand 
Blow up their discontents, till they break out 
Unlook’d for, and discharge themselves on Cato. 
Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste : 

O think what anxious moments pass between 
The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods. 

Oh ! ’tis a dreadful interval of time, 

Fill’d up with hcrrour all, and big with death ! 
Destruction hangs on ev ry word we speak, 

On ev’ry thought, ’till the concluding stroke 
Determines all, and closes our design. [Exit, 

Syph ax solus,- 

I’ll try if yet I can reduce to reason 

This headstrong youth, and make him spurn at Cate, 

The time is short, Caesar comes rushing on us. 

But hold ! young Juba sees me, and approaches. 

SCENE IV. 

Enter Juba. 

Jub. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone. 

I have observ’d of late thy looks are fall’n, 

O’ercast with gloomy cares and discontent : 

Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me, 

What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns, 
And turu thine eye thus coldly on thy prince ? 

Syph. ’Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts. 

Or carry smiles and sunshine in my face, 

When discontent sits heavy at my heart : 

I have not yet so much the Roman in me. 

Jub . Why dost thou cast out such ungen’rous terms 
Against the lords and sovereigns of the world ? 

Dost thou not see mankind fall down before them 
And own the force of :heir superior virtue ? 

Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric ; 


\ 




16 


CATO. 


[Act I. 


Amidst our barren rocks and burning sands, 

That does not tremble at the Roman name ? 

Syph . Gods ! where’s the worth that sets this peo¬ 
ple up 

Above your own Numidia’s tawny sons ? 

Do they with tougher sinews bend the bow ? 

Or flies the jav’lin swifter to its mark, 

Launch’d from the vigour of a Roman arm ? 

Who like our active African instructs 
The fiery steed, and trains him to his hand ? 

Or guides in troops th’ embattled elephant, 

Laden with war ? these, these are arts, my prince, 

In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome. 

Jub . These all are virtues of a meaner rank, 
Perfections that are plac’d in bones and nerves. 

A Roman soul is bent on higher views : 

To civilize the rude unpolish’d world, 

And lay it under the restraint of laws ; 

To make man mild, and sociable to man j 
To cultivate the wild licentious savage 
With wisdom, discipline and lib’ral arts ; 

Th’ embellishments of life : virtues like these 
Make human nature shine, reform the soul, 

And break our fierce barbarians into men. 

Syph. Patience, kind heav’ns ! excuse an old man’s 
warmth. 

What are these wondrous civilizing arts, 

This Roman polish, and this smooth behaviour, 

That render man thus tractable and tame ? 

Are they not only to disguise our passions. 

To set our looks at variance with our thoughts, 

To check the starts and sallies of the soul. 

And break off all its commerce with the tongue ; 

In short, to change us into other creatures, 

Than what our nature and the gods design’d us ? 

Jub. To strike thee dumb, turn up thy eyes to Cato \ 
There may’st thou see to what a godlike height 
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man. 

While good, and just, and anxious for his friends, 

He’s still severely bent against himself; 

Renouncing sleep, and rest, and food, and ease, 


Act I.]. 


CATO. 


He strives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat , 

And when his fortune sets before him all 
The pomps and pleasures that his soul can wish. 

His rigid virtue will accept of none. 

Sypb. Believe me, prince, there’s not an African 
That traverses our vast Numidian deserts, 

In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow. 

But better practises these boasted virtues. 

Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase, 

Amidst the running stream he slakes his thirst* 

Toils all the day, and at th’ approach of night 
On the first friendly bank he throws him down.. 

Or rests his head upon a rock till morn : 

Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted game. 

And if the following day he chance to find 
A new repast, or an untasted spring, 

• Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury. 

Jub. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won’t discern. 

What virtues grow from ignorance and choice. 

Nor how the hero differs from the brute. 

But grant that others could with equal glory 
Look down on pleasures and the baits of sense ; 

Where shall we find the man that bears affliction. 

Great and majestick in his griefs, like Cato ? 

Heav’ns ! with what strength, what steadiness of mind, 
He triumphs in the midst of all his sufferings ! 

How does he rise against a load of woes, 

And thank the gods that throw the weight upon him ! 

Sypb. ’Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul! 
1 think the Romans call it Stoicism. 

Had not your royal father thought so highly 
Of Roman virtue, and of Cato’s cause, 

He had not fall’n by a slave’s hand, inglorious : 

Nor would his slaughter’d army now have lain 
On Afric’s sands disfigur’d with their wounds, 

To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia. 

Jub. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh ? 

My father’s name brings tears into my eyes. 

Syph. Oh, that you’d profit by your father’s ills f 
Jub. What would’st thou have me do \ 

Syph . Abandon Cato, 



CATO. [Act 1. 

Jub. Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan 
By such a loss. 

Syph. Ay, there’s the tie that binds you ! 

You long to call him father. Marcia’s charms 
Work in your heart unseen, and plead for Cato. 

No wonder you are deaf to all I say. 

Jub. Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate ; 

I’ve hitherto permitted it to rave, 

And talk at large ; but learn to keep it in, 

Lest it should take more freedom than I’ll give it. 

Syph. Sir, your great father never us’d me thus. 

Alas, he’s dead ! but can you e’er forget 
The tender sorrows and the pangs of nature, 

The fond embraces, and repeated blessings, 

Which you drew from him in your last farewell ? 

Still must I cherish the dear, sad remembrance, 

At once to torture, and to please my soul. 

The good old king at parting wrung my hand, 

(His eyes brim-full of tears,) then sighing cry’d,, 
Pr’ythee be careful of my son ! His grief 
Swell’d up so high, he could not utter more. 

Jub. Alas, the story melts away my soul. 

That best of fathers ! how shall I discharge 
The gratitude and duty which I owe him ! 

Syph. By laying up his counsels in your heart. 

Jub. His counsels bade me yield to thy directions. 
Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms, 

Vent all thy passion, and I’ll stand its shock, 

Calm and unruffled as a summer sea, 

Whe'n not a breath of wind flies o’er its surface. 

Syph. Alas, my prince, I’d guide you to your safety. 
Jub. I do believe thou would’st ; but tell me how ? 
Syph. Fly from the fate that follows Csesar’s foes. 
Jub. My father scorn’d to do it. 

Syph. And therefore dy’d. 

Jub. Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths, 
Than wound my honour. 

Syph. Rather say your love. 

Jub. Syphax, Iv’e promis’d to preserve my temper ; 
Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame 
I long have stifled, and would fain conceal ? 




CATO. 


Act I.] 


19 


Sypb. Believe me, prince, tho’ hard to conquer love, 
’Tis easy to divert and break its force : 

Absence might cure it, or a second mistress 
Light up another flame, and put out this. 

The glowing dames of Zama’s royal court 
Have faces flush’d with more exalted charms ; 

The sun, that rolls his chariot o’er their heads, 

Works up more fire and colour in their cheeks : 

Were you with these, my prince, you’d soon forget 
The pale, unripen’d beauties of the North. 

Jab. ’Tis not a set of features, or complexion. 

The tincture of a skin that I admire. 

Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, 

Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense. 

The virtuous Marcia tow’rs above her sex : 

True, she is fair, (oh, how divinely fair !) 

But still the lovely maid improves her charms, 

With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom. 

And sanctity of manners. Cato’s soul 
Shines out in ev’ry thing she acts or speaks, 

While winning mildness and attractive smiles 
Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace 
Soften the rigour of her father s virtues. 

Sypb. How does your tongue grow wanton in her 
praise ! 

But on my knees I beg you would consider— 

Enter Marcia and Lucia. 

Jul. Ha 1 Syphax, is’t not she ! She moves this 
way : 

And with her Lucia, Lucius’s fair daughter, 

My heart beats thick ; I pr ythee, Syphax, leave me. 

Sypb. Ten thousand curses fasten on them both ! 
Now will this woman with a single glance 
Undo what I’ve been lab’ring all this while. [j Exit. 

SCENE V. 

Enter Juba, Marcia, Lucia. 

Juh. Hail, charming maid, how does thy beauty, 
smooth 



-20 


CATO. 


[[Act I. 


The face of war, and make e’en horrour smile ! 

At sight of thee my heart shakes off its sorrows ; 

I feel a dawn of joy break in upon me, 

And for a while forget th’ approach of Caesar. 

Mar. I should be griev’d, young prince, to think 
my presence 

Unbent your thoughts, and slacken’d ’em to arms, 
While warm with slaughter, our victorious foe 
Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field. 

Jub. O Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns 
And gentle wishes follow me to battle ! 

The thought will give new vigour to my arm. 

Add strength and weight to my descending sword* 

Ai;d drive it in a tempest on the foe. 

Mar. My pray’rs and wishes always shall attend 
The friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue* 

And men approv’d of by the gods and Cato. 

Jub. That Juba may deserve thy pious cares. 

I’ll gaze for ever on thy godlike father. 

Transplanting, one by one into my life 
His bright perfections, till I shine like him. 

Mar. My father never at a time like this 
Would lay out his great soul in words, and waste 
Such precious moments. 

Jub. Thy reproofs are ’just, 

Thou virtuous maid ; I’ll hasten to my troops. 

And fire their languid souls with Cato’s virtue. 

If e’er I lead them to the field, wdien all 
The war shall stand rang’d in its just array, 

And dreadful pomp : then will I think on thee l 
O lovely maid, then will I think on thee ! 

And, in the shock of charging hosts, remember, 

What glorious deeds should grace the man who hopes 
For Marcia’s love. [Exit, 

SCENE VI. 

Lucia, Marcia. 

Luc. Marcia, you’re too severe : 

How could you chide the young good-natur’d prince* 
And drive him from you with so stern an air, 

A prince that loves and doats on you to death * 


Act I.] 


CATO. 


c ll 


Mar. ’Tis therefore, Lucia, that I chide him from me : 
His air, his voice, his looks, and honest soul 
Speak all so movingly in his behalf, 

1 dare not trust myself to hear him talk. 

Luc. Why will you fight against so sweet a passion, 
And steel your heart to such a world of charms ? 

Mar. How, Lucia, would’st thou have me sink away 
In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love. 

When jsv’ry moment Cato’s life’s at stake ? 

Ca:sar comes arm’d with terrour and revenge. 

And aims his thunder at my father’s head : 

Should not the sad occasion fwallow up 
My other cares, and draw them all into it ? 

Luc. Why have I not this constancy of mind. 

Who have so many griefs to try its force ? 

Sure, nature form’d me of her softest mould, 

Enfeebled all my soul with tender passions. 

And sunk me ev’n below mine own weak sex : 

Pity, and love, by turns oppress my heart. 

Mar. Lucia, disburden all thy cares on me, 

And let me share thy most retir’d distress ; 

Tell me who raises up this conflict in thee ? 

Luc. I need not blush to name them, when I tell thee 
They’re Marcia’s brothers, and the sons of Cato. 

Mar. They both behold thee with their sister’s eyes, 
And often have reveal’d their passion to me : 

But tell me whose address thou fav’rest most ? 

I long to know, and yet I dread to hear it. 

Luc. Which is it Marcia wishes for ? 

Mar. -For neither, 

And yet for both ; the youths have equal share 
In Marcia’s wishes, and divide their sister : 

But tell me, which of them is Lucia ? s choice ? 

Luc. Marcia, they both are high in my esteem ; 

But in my love—why wilt thou make me name him ! 
Thou know’st it is a blind and foolish passion, 

Pleas’d and disgusted with it knows not what. 

Mar. O Lucia, I’m perplex’d ; O tell me which 
I must hereafter call my happy brother ? 

Luc. Suppose ’twere Portius, could you blame my 
choice ? 

C 





$2 


CATO. 


[Act L 


O Portius, thou hast stoPn away my soul ! 

With what a graceful tenderness he loves, 

And breathes the softest, the sincerest vows ! 
Complacency, and truth, and manly sweetness 
Dwell ever on his tongue, and smooth his thoughts. 
Marcus is over warm ; his fond complaints 
Have so much earnestness and passion in them, 

I hear him with a secret kind of horrour, 

And tremble at his vehemence of temper. 

Mar. Alas, poor youth ! how canst thou throw him 
from thee ? 

Lucia, thou know’st not half the love he bears thee ? 
Whene’er he speaks of thee, his heart’s in flames, 

He sends out all his soul in ev’ry word, 

And thinks, and talks, and looks like one transported. 
Unhappy youth ! how will thy coldness raise 
Tempests and storms in his afflicted bosom 1 
I dread the consequence. 

Luc. You seem to plead 
Against your brother Portius. 

Mar . Heav’n forbid ! 

Had Portius been the unsuccessful lover, 

The same compassion would have fall’n on him. 

Luc. Was ever virgin love distress’d like mine ? 
Portius himself oft falls in tears before me. 

As if he mourn’d his rival’s ill success, 

Then bids me hide the motion of my heart. 

Nor shew which way it turns. So much he fears 
The sad effects that it would have on Marcus. 

Mar. He knows too well how easily lie’s fir’d, 

And would not plunge his brother in despair, 

But waits for happier times and kinder moments. 

Luc. Alas, too late I find myself involv’d 
In endless griefs and labyrinths of woe, 

Born to afflict my Marcia’s family, 

And sow dissension in the hearts of brothers. 
Tormenting thought ! it cuts into the soul. 

Mar. Let us not, Lucia, aggravate our sorrows. 
But to the gods permit th’ event of things. 

Our lives, discolour’d with our present woes, 

May still grow bright, and smile with happier hours ; 


Act II.] 


CATO. 


23 


So the pure limpid stream, when foul with stains 
Of rushing torrents, and descending rains, 

Works itself clear, and as it runs, refines ; 

Till by degrees the floating mirrour shines, 

Reflects each flow’r that on the border grows, 

And a new heav’n in its fair bosom shows. [Exeunt: 

ACT II. SCENE I 

The SENATE. 

Sempronius, Lucius-. 

Sempronius. 

ROME still survives in this assembled senate * 

Let us remember we are Cato’s friends, 

And act like men who claim that glorious title. 

Luc . Cato will soon be here, and open to us 
Th* occasion of our meeting. Hark ! he comes 1 

\_A sound of Trumpets , 

May all the guardian gods of Rome direct him ! 

Enter Cato. 

Cato, Fathers, we once again are met in council. 
Caesar’s approach has summon’d us together. 

And Rome attends her fate from our resolves ; 

How shall we treat this bold aspiring man ? 

Success still follows him, and backs his crimes ; 
Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has since 
Receiv’d his yoke, and the whole Nile is Csesar’sf. 

Why should I mention Juba’s overthrow, 

And Scipio’s death ? Numidia’s burning sands 
Still smoke with blood. ’Tis time we should decree 
What course to take. Our foe advances on us, 

And envies us ev’n Lybia’s sultry desarts. 

Fathers, pronounce your thoughts, are they still fix’d 
To hold it out and fight it to the last ? 

Or are your hearts subdu’d at length, and wrought 




24? 


CATO. 


Act II. 


By time and ill success to a submission ? 

Sempronius, speak. 

Semp . My voice is still for war. 

Gods ! can a Roman senate long debate 
Which of the two to choose, slav’ry or death 1 
No ; let us rise at once, gird on our swords, 

And at the head of our remaining troops, 

Attack the foe, break through the thick array 
Of his throng’d legions, and charge home upon him. 
Perhaps some arm more lucky than the rest, 

May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. 
Rise, fathers, rise ! ’tis Rome demands your help ; 
Rise, and revenge her slaughter’d citizens, 

Or share their fate ! the corps of half her senate 
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we 
Sit here delib’rating in cold debates 
If we should sacrifice our lives to honour. 

Or wear them out in servitude and chains. 

Rouse up, for shame ! our brothers of Pharsalia 
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud—To battle ! 

Great Pompev’s shade complains that we are slow, 

And Scipio’s ghost walks unreveng’d amongst us ! 

Cato . Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal 
Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason : 
True fortitude is seen in great exploits 
That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides : 

All else is tow’ring frenzy and distraction. 

Are not the lives of those who draw the sword 
In Rome’s defence entrusted to our care ? 

Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter, 

Might not th’ impartial world with reason say, 

We lavish’d at our death’s the blood of thousands, 

To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious ? 

Lucius, we next would know what’s your opinion. 

Luc. My thoughts, I must confess, are turn’d on peace. 
Already have our quarrels fill’d the world 
With widows, and with orphans : Scythia mourns 
Our guilty wars, and earth’s remotest regions 
Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome : 

’Tis time to sheath the sword, and spare mankind-. 

It rs not Csesar, but the gods, my fathers, 


Act II.] 


CATO. 


25 


The gods declare against us, and repel 

Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle, 

(Prompted by blind revenge, and wild despair) 

Were to refuse th’ awards of Providence, 

And not to rest in heavVs determination. 

Already have we shown our love to Rome, 

Now let us show submission to the gods. 

We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves, 

But free the Commonwealth ; when this end fails, 
Arms have no further use : our country’s cause, 

That drew our swords, now wrests ’em from our hands. 
And bids us not delight in Roman blood 
Unprofitably'sned : what men could do 
Is done already : Heaven and earth will witness, 

If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. 

Semp. This smooth discourse and mild behaviour oft 

Conceal a traitor.-Something whispers me 

All is not right.-Cato, beware of Lucius. 

[Aside to Cato, 

Cato . Let us appear not rash nor diffident; 

Im mod’rate valour swells into a fault; 

And fear admitted into publick councils, 

Betrays like treason. Let us shun ’em both. 

Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs 

Are grown thus desp rate : we have bulwarks round us 

Within our walls are troops inur’d to toil 

In Afric heats, and season’d to the sun $ 

Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us, , 

Ready to rise at its young prince’s call. 

While there is hope, do not distrust the gods : 

But wait at least till Caesar’s near approach 
Force us to yield. ’Twill never be too late 
To sue for chains and own a conquerour. 

Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time l 
No, let us draw our term of freedom out 
In its full length, and spin it to the last; 

So shall we gain ^till one day’s liberty ; 

And let me perish ; but in Cato’s judgment 
A day, an hour of virtuous liberty, 

Is worth a whole eternity of bondage. ,/ 

C 2 





2G 


CATO. 


[Act ir. 


Enter Marcus. 

Marc . Fathers, this moment as I watch’d the gate. 
Lodg’d in my post, a herald is arriv d 
From Caesar’s camp, and with him comes old Decius 
The Roman knight : he carries in his looks 
Impatience, and demands to speak with Cato. 

Cato. By your permission, fathers, bid him enter. 

[Exit Marcus. 

Decius was once my friend ; but other prospects 
Have loos’d these ties, and bound him fast to Caesar* 
His message may determine our resolves. 

SCENE II. 

Decius, Cato. 

Dec. Caesar sends health to Cato- 

Cato . Could he send it 

To Cato’s slaughter’d friends, it would be welcome. 
Are not your orders to address the senate ? 

Dec. My business is with Cato. Caesar sees 
The straits to which you’re driven ; and as he knows 
Cato’s high worth, is anxious for your life. 

Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of Rome. 
Would he save Cato ? bid him spare his country. 

Tell your dictator this : and tell him, Cato 
Disdains a life which he has power to offer. 

Dec. Rome and. her senators submit to Caesar. 

Her gen’rals and her consuls are no more, 

Who check’d his conquests, and denied his triumphs. 
Why will not Cato be this Caesar’s friend ? 

Cato . Those very reasons thou hast urg’d, forbid it. 
Dec. Cato, I’ve orders to expostulate 
And reason with you, as-from friend to friend. 

Think on the storm that gathers o’er your head, 

And threatens ev’ry hour to burst upon it. 

Still may you stand high in your country’s honours, 
Do but comply, and make your peace with Caesar. 
Rome will rejoice, and cast its eyes on Cato, 

As on the second of mankind. 

Cato. No more ; 

I must sot think of life on such conditions. 






Act II.] 


CATO. 


27 


Dec. Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues, 

And therefore sets this value on your life ; 

Let him but know the price of Cato’s friendship. 

And name your terms. 

Cato. Bid him disband his legion^. 

Restore the commonwealth to liberty, 

Submit his actions to the publick censure, 

And stand the judgment of a Roman senate. 

Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. 

Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom—- 
Cato . Nay, more,tho’ Cato’s voice was ne’er employ’d 
To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes, 

Myself will mount the rostrum in his favour, 

And strive to gain his pardon from the people. 

Dee. A style like this becomes a conquerour. 

Cato . Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman. 
Dec. What is a Roman, that A is Caesar’s foe ? 

Cato . Greater than Caesar : he’s a friend to virtue. 
Dec. Consider, Cato, you’re in Utica, 

And at the head of your own little senate 5 
You don’t now thunder in the capitol, 

"With all the mouths of Rome to second you. 

Cato . Let him consider that, who drives us hither ! 
’Tis Caesar’s sword has made Rome’s senate little, 

And thinn’d its ranks. Alas, thy dazzled eye. 

Beholds this man in a false glaring light, 

Which conquest and success have thrown upon him \ 
Didst thou but view him right, thou’dst see him black 
With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes 
That strike my soul with horrour but to name ’em. 

I know thou look’st on me, as on a wretch 
Beset with ills, and cover’d with misfortunes ; 

But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds 
Should never buy me to be like that Caesar. 

Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to Caesar, 

For all his gen’rous cares, and proffer’d friendship * 
Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain ; 
Presumptuous man ! the gods take care of Cato. 
Would Caesar shew the greatness of his soul. 

Bid him employ his care for these my friends? 





28 


CATO. 


[Act II. 


And make good use of his ill-gotten pow’r, 

By sheltTing men much better than himself. 

Dec. Your high unconquer’d heart makes you forget 
You are a man. You rush on your destruction. 

But I have done. When I relate hereafter 
The tale of this unhappy embassy, 

All Rome will be in tears. Decius . 

SCENE III. 

Sempronius, Lucius,Cato. 

Semp. Cato, we thank thee. 

The mighty genius of immortal Rome 
Speaks in thy voice, thy soul breathes liberty. 

Csesar will shrink to hear the words thou utter’st, 

And shudder in the midst of all his conquests. 

Luc. The senate owns its gratitude to Cato, 

Who with so great a soul consults its safety, 

And guards our lives, while he neglects his own. 

Semp. Sempronius gives no thanks on this account,* 
Lucius seems fond of life ; but what is life ? 

’Tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air 
From time to time, or gaze upon the sun ; 

’Tis to be free. When liberty is gone. 

Life grows insipid, and has lost its relish. 

O could my dying hand but lodge a sword 
In Caesar’s bosom, and revenge my country, 

By heav’ns, I could enjoy the pangs of death, 

And smile in agony ! 

Luc. Others, perhaps, 

May serve their country with as warm a zeal. 

Though ’tis not kindled into so much rage. 

Semp. This sober conduct is a mighty virtue 
In lukewarm patriots. 

Cato . Come ! no more, Sempronius. 

All here are friends to Rome* and to each other. 

Let us not weaken still the weaker side 
By our divisions. 

Semp. Cato, my resentments 

Arc sacrific’d to Rome.-1 stand reprov’d. 

Cato. Fathers, ’Tjs time you come to a resolve. 






Act II.] 


CATO. 


29 


Luc . Cato, we all go into your opinion. 

Csesar’s behaviour has convinc’d the senate 
We ought to hold it out till terms arrive. 

Semp. We ought to hold it out till death ; but, Cato, 
My private voice is drown’d amid the senate’s. 

Cato. Then let us rise my friends, and strive to fill 
This little interval, this pause of life, 

(While yet our liberty and fates are doubtful,) 

With resolution, friendship, Roman bravery. 

And all the virtues we can crowd into it ; 

That Heav’n may say it ought to be prolong’d : 
Fathers, farewell ; the young Numidian prince 
Comes forward, and expects to know our counsels. 

[Exeunt Senators.- 

SCENE IV. 

Cato, Juba. 

Cato. Juba, the Roman senate has re$olv|djf 
Till time give better prospects, still to keep 
The sword unsheath’d, and turn its edge on Caesar. 

Jub. The resolution fits a Roman senate. 

But, Cato, lend me for a wdiile thy patience, 

And condescend to hear a young man speak. 

My father, when some days before his death 
He order’d me to march for Utica, 

(Alas, I thought not then his death so near !) 

Wept o’er me, press’d me in his aged arms, 

And, as his griefs gave way, my son, said he. 
Whatever fortune shall befal thy father, 

Be Cato’s friend ; he’ll train thee up to great 
And virtuous deeds : do but observe him well, 

Thou’lt shun misfortunes, or thou’lt learn to bear ’em. 

Cato. Juba, thy father was a worthy prince, 

And merited, alas ! a better fate ; 

ButfHeav’n thought otherwise. 

Jub. My father’s fate, 

In spite of all the fortitude that shines 
Before my face, in Cato’s great example. 

Subdues my soul, and'fills my eyes with tears. 

Cato . It is an honesj sorrow, and becomes thee. 




so 


CATO. 


[Act XL 

Juba. My father drew respect from foreign climes : 
The kings of Afric sought him for their friend ; 

Kings far remote, that rule, as fame reports, 

Behind the hidden sources of the Nile, 

In distant worlds, on t’other side the sun : 

Oft have their black ambassadors appear’d. 

Laden with gifts, and fill’d the courts of Zama. 

Cato. I am no stranger to thy father’s greatness. 
Juba. I would not boast the greatness of my father. 
But point out new alliances to Cato. 

Had we not better leave this Utica, 

To arm Numidia in our cause, and court 
Th’ assistance of my father’s powerful friends 1 
Did they know Cato, our remotest kings 
Would pour embattled multitudes about him : 

Their swarthy hosts would darken all our plains, 
Doubling the native horrour of the war, 

And making death more grim. 

Cato. And can’st thou think 
Cato will fly before the sword of Caesar ! 

Reduc’d, like Hannibal, to seek relief 
From court to court, and wander up and down 
A vagabond in Afric 1 
Juba. Cato, perhaps 

I’m too officious ; but my forward cares 
Would fain preserve a life of so much value. 

My heart is wounded, when I see such virtue 
Afflicted by the weight of such misfortunes. 

Cato. Thy nobleness of soul obliges me. 

But know, young prince, that valour soars above 
What the world calls misfortune and affliction. 

These are not ills ; else would they never fall 
Onheav’ns first fav’rites, and the best of men : 

The gods in bounty work up storms about us, 

That give mankind occasion to exert 
Their hidden strength, and throw out into practice 
Virtues which shun the day, and lie conceal’d 
In the smooth seasons and the calms of life. 

Juba. I’m charm’d whene’er thou talk’st ! I pant 
for virtue ! 

And all my soul endeavours at perfection- 




Act II.] 


CATO. 


31 


Cato. Dost thou love watchings, abstinence, and toil, 
Laborious virtues all ? Learn them from Cato : 

Success and fortune must thou learn from Caesar. 

Juba. The best good fortune that can fall on Juba, 
The whole success at which my heart aspires, 

Depends on Cato. 

Cato. What does Juba say ? 

Thy words confound me. 

Juba. I would fain retract them. 

Give ’em me back again. They aim’d at nothing. 
Cato. Tell me thy wish, young prince : make not 
my ear 

A stranger to thy thoughts. 

Juba. Oh, they’re extravagant! 

Still let me hide them. 

Cato. What can Juba ask 
That Cato will refuse ! 

Juba. I fear to name it. 

Marcia-inherits all her father’s virtues. 

Cato. What would’st thou say ! 

Juba. Cato, thou hast a daughter. 

Cato. Adieu, young prince ; I would not hear a word. 
Should lessen thee in my esteem : remember 
The hand of fate is over us, and Heav’n 
Exacts severity from all our thoughts : 

It is not now a time to talk of aught 

But chains, or conquest ; liberty, or death. [Exit. 

SCENE V. 

Syphax, Juba. 

Syph. How’s this, my prince ! what, cover’d with 
confusion ? 

You look as if yon stern philosopher 
Had just now chid you. 

Juba. Syphax, I’m undone 1 
Syph. I know it well. 

Juba. Cato thinks meanly of me. 

Syph. And so will all mankind. 

Juba. I’ve open’d to him 
The weakness of my soul, my love for Marcia. 




CATO. 


[Act II. 


32 


Syph. Cato’s a proper person to entrust 
A love-tale with. 

Juba, Oh, I could pierce my heart, 

My foolish heart ! was ever wretch like Juba ! 

Syph. Alas, my prince, how are you chang’d of late ! 
I’ve known young Juba rise before the sun. 

To beat the thicket where the tiger slept, 

Or seek the lion in his dreadful haunts : 

How did the colour mount into your cheeks, 

When first you rous’d him to the chace ! I’ve seen yon, 
Ev’n in the Lybian dog-days, hunt him down, 

Then charge him close, provoke him to the rage 
Of fangs and claws, and stooping from your horSe 
Rivet the panting savage to the ground. 

Juba, Pr’ythee, no more ! 

Syph, How would the old king smile 
To se^ you weigh the paws, when tipp’d with gold, 
And throw the shaggy spoils about your shoulders ! 

Juba. Syphax,this old man’s talk (tho’ honey flow’d 
In every word) wou’d now lose all its sweetness. 

Cato’s displeas’d, and Marcia lost for ever ! 

Syph. Young prince, I yet could give you good advice, 
Marcia might still be yours ! 

Juba. What say’st thou, Syphax ? 

By heav’ns thou turn’st me all into attention*. 

Syph . Marcia might still be yours. 

Juba. As how, dear Syphax ? 

Syph. Juba commands Numidia’s hardy troops, 
Mounted on steeds unns’d to the restraint 
Of curbs or bits, and fleeter than the winds : 

Give but the word, we’ll snatch this damsel up, 

And bear her off. 

Juba. Can such dishonest thoughts 
Rise up in man \ would’st thou seduce my youth 
To do an act that would destroy my honour! 

Syph. Gods, I could tear my beard to hear you talk ! 
Honour’s a fine imaginary notion, 

That draws in raw and inexperienc’d men 
To real mischiefs, while they hunt a shadow. 

Juba. Would’st thou degrade thy prince intoa ruffian ? 

Syph. The boasted ancestors of these great men 
Whose virtues you admire, were all such ruffians 1 





CATO. 


33 


Act II.] 

This dread of nations, this almighty Rome, 

That comprehends in her wide empire’s bounds 
All under beav’n, was founded on a rape. 

Your Scipios, Caesars, Pompeys, and your Catos, 
(These gods on earth) are all the spurious brood 
Of violated maids, of ravish’d Sabines. 

Juba. Syphax, I fear that hoary head of thine 
Abounds too much in ourNumidian wiles. 

Syph. Indeed, my prince, you want to know the world. 
You have not read mankind ; your youth admires 
The throes and swellings of a Roman soul, 

Cato’s bold flights, th’ extravagance of virtue. 

Juba. If knowledge of the world makesman perfidious, 
May Juba ever live in ignorance 1 
Sypb. Go, go, you’re young. 

Juba. Gods, must I tamely bear 
This arrogance unanswer’d ! thou’rt a traitor, 

A false old traitor. 

Syph. I have gone too far. , t [Aside. 

Juba. Cato shall know the baseness of thy soul. 

Syph. I must appease this storm: or perish in it. [ Aside - 
Young prince, behold these locks that are grown white 
Beneath a helmet in your father’s battles. 

Juba. Those locks shall ne’er protect thy insolence# 
Syph. Must one rash word, th’ infirmity of age. 
Throw down the merit of my better years ? 

This the reward of a whole life of service ! 

—Curse on the boy! how steadily he hears me ! [Aside. 

Juba. Is it because the throne of my forefathers 
Still stands unfill’d, and that Numidia’s crown 
Hangs doubtful yet, whose head it shall inclose, 

Thou thus presum’st to treat thy prince with scorn ? 
Syph. Why will you rive my heart with such expres* 
sions ? 

Does not old Syphax follow you to war ? 

What are his aims ? why does he load with darts 
His trembling hand, and crush beneath a casque 
His wrinkled brows ? what is it he aspires to ? 

Is it not this ; to shed the slow remains, 

His last poor ebb of blood, in your defence ? 

Juba. Syphax, no more ! I would not hear you talk* 
D 


34 


CATO. 


[Act II. 

Syph. Not hear me talk ! what, when my faith to Juba 
My royal master’s son, is call’d in question ? 

My prince may strike me dead, and I’ll be dumb : 

But whilst I live I must not hold my tongue, 

And languish out old age in his displeasure. 

Juba. Thou know’st the way too well into my heart : 
I do believe thee loyal to thy prince. 

Syph. What greater instance can I give ? I’ve offer’d 
To do an action, which my soul abhors, 

And gain you whpm you love at any price. 

Juba. Was this thy motive ? I have been too hasty. 
Syph. And ’tis for this my prince has call’d me traitor. 
Juba. Sure thou mistak’st ; I did not call thee so. 
Syph. You did indeed, my prince, you call’d me traitor. 
Nay, further, threaten’d you’d complain to Cato. 

Of what, my prince, would you complain to Cato ? 

That Syphax loves you, and would sacrifice 
His life, nay more, his honour in your service. 

Juba. Syphax, I know thou lov’st me ; but indeed 
Thy zeal for Juba carry’d thee too far. 

Honour’s a sacred tie, the law of kings, 

The noble mind’s distinguishing perfection, 

That aids and strengthens virtue, where it meets her, 
And imitates her actions, where she is not: 

It ought not to be sported with. 

Syph. By heav’ns 

I’m ravish’d when you talk thus, tho’ you chide me I 
Alas, I’ve hitherto been us’d to think 
A blind officious zeal to serve my king 
The ruling principle that ought to burn, 

And quench all others in a subject’s heart. 

Happy the people who preserve their honour 
By the same duties that oblige their prince ! 

Juba. Syphax, thou now beginn’st to speak thyself. 
Numidia’s grown a scorn among the nations 
For breach of publick vows. Our Punic faitli 
Is infamous, and branded to a proverb. 

Syphax, we’ll join our cares, to purge away 
Our country’s crimes, .and clear her reputation. 

Syph. Believe me, prince, you make old Syphax weep 
To hear you talk—~but ’tis with tears of joy. 







CATO. 


Act II.] 


If e’er your father’s crown adorn your brows, 

Numidia will be blest by Cato’s lectures. 

Juba. Syphax, thy hand ! we’ll mutually forget ' 
The warmth of youth, and frowardness of age : 

Thy prince esteems thy worth, and loves thy person : 

If e’er the sceptre comes into my hand, 

Syphax shall stand the second in my kingdom. 

Syph. Why will you overwhelm my age with kind¬ 
ness ? 

My joy grows burdensome, I sha’n’t support it. 

Juba. Syphax, farewel. I’ll hence, and try to find 
Some blest occasion that may set me right 
In Cato’s thoughts. I’d rather have that man 
Approve my deeds,than worlds for my admirers. [J Exit.- 

Syphax, solus . 

Young men soon give and soon forget affronts: 

Old age is slow in both-A false old traitor ! 

These words, rash boy, may chance to cost thee dear. 
My heart had still some foolish fondness for thee : 

But hence ! ’tis gone : I give it to the winds :-- 

Caesar, I’m wholly thine.- 

SCENE VI. 

Syphax, Sempronius, 

Syph . All hail, Sempronius! 

Well! Cato’s senate is resolv’d to wait 
The fury of a siege before it yields. 

Setup. Syphax, we both were on the verge of fate ; 
Lucius declar’d for peace, and terms were offer’d 
To Cato by a messenger from Caesar. 

Should they submit, ere our designs are ripe. 

We both must perish in the common Wreck, 

Lost in a gen’ral undistinguish’d ruin. 

Syph. But how stands Cato ? 

Setup. Thou hast seen mount Atlas : 

While storms and tempest thunder on its brow. 

And oceans break their billows at its feet. 

It stands unmov’d, and glories in its height. 

Sucli is that haughty man ; his tow’ring soul, 


36 


CATO. 


[Act II* 


•’Midst all the shocks and injuries of fortune. 

Rises superiour, and looks down on Cassar. 

Syph. But what’s this messenger ? 

Semp. I’ve practis’d with him, 

And found a mean^to let the victor know 
That Syphax and Sempronius are his friends. 

But let me now examine in my turn : 

Is Juba fix’d ? 

Syph, Yes——but it is to Cato. 

I’ve try’d the force of ev’ry reason on him, 

Sooth’d and caress’d, been angry, sooth’d again, 

Laid safety, life, and int’rest in his sight : 

But all are vain, he scorns them all for Cato. 

Semp. Come, ’tis no matter, we shall do without him 
He’ll make a pretty figure in a triumph, 

And serve to trip before the victor’s chariot. 

Syphax, I now may hope thou hast forsook 
Thy Juba’s cause, and wishest Marcia mine. 

Syph. May she be thine as fast as thou wouldst have her. 
Semp. Syphax, I love that woman ; though I curse 
Her and myself, yet spite of me, I love her. 

Syph. Make Cato sure, and give up Utica ; 

Caesar will ne’er refuse thee such a trifle. 

But are thy troops prepar’d for a revolt ? 

Does the sedition catch from man to man, , ;1 

And run among their ranks ? 

Semp . All, all is ready. I 

The factious leaders are our friends, that spread 
Murmurs and discontents among the soldiers. 

They count their toilsome marches, long fatigues, 

Unusual fastings, and will bear no more, 

This medley of philosophy and war. 

Within an hour they’ll storm the senate house. 

Syph. Meanwhile I’ll draw up my Numidian troops 
Within the square, to exercise their arms, 

And, as I see occasion, favour thee. 

I laugh to think how your unshaken Cato 
Will look aghast, while unforeseen destruction 
Pours in upon him thus f»om every side. 

So, where our wide Numidian wastes extend, 

Sudden th* impetuous hurricanes descend, 







CATO. 


Act III. ] 


37 


Wheel through the air, in circling eddies play, 

Tear up the sands, and sweep whole plains away, 

The helpless traveller, with wild surprise, 

Sees the dry desart all around him rise, 

And, smother’d in the dusty whirlwind, dies. [Exeunt. / 


mxmy 


ACT III. SCENE I. 

Marcus and Portius. 

Man. Thanks to my stars, I have not rang’d about 
The wilds of life, ere I could find a friend ; 

Nature first pointed out my Portius to me, 

And early taught me, by her secret force. 

To love thy person, ere I knew thy merit : 

’Till what was instinct grew up into friendship. 

Por . Marcus, the friendships of the world are oft 
Confed’racies in vice, or leagues of pleasure j 
Ours has severest virtue for \ts basis. 

And such a friendship ends not but with life. 

Marc. Portius, thou know’st my soul in all its 
weakness, 

Then pr’ythee spare me on its tender side, 

Indulge me but in love, my other passions 
Shall rise and fall by virtue’s nicest rules. 

Por. Wiien love’s well tim’d, ’tis not a fault to love. 
The strong, the brave, the virtuous and the wise 
Sink in the soft captivity together. 

I would not urge thee to dismiss thy passion, 

(I know ’twere vain,) but to suppress its force, 

Till better times may make it look more graceful. 

Marc. Alas ! thou talk’st like one who never felt 
Th’ impatient throbs and longings of a soul 
That pants and reaches after distant good. 

A lover does not live by vulgar time : 

Believe me, Portius, in my Lucia’s absence 
Life hangs upon me, and becomes a burden ; 

And yet, when I behold the charming maid, 

I’m ten times more undone ; while hope and fear, 

D 2 



38 


CATO. 


[Act III. 


And grief, and rage, and love rise up at once, 

And with variety of pain distract me. 

Por. What can thy Portius do to give thee help ? 
Marc . Portius, thou oft enjoy’st the fair one’s 
presence : 

Then undertake my cause, and plead it to her 
With all the strength and heat of eloquence 
Fraternal love and friendship can inspire. 

Tell her thy brother languishes to death. 

And fades away, and withers in his bloom ; 

That he forgets his sleep, and loathes his food, 

That youth, and health, and war are joyless to him : 
Describe his anxious days, and restless nights, 

And all the torments that thou seest me suffer. 

Por . Marcus, I beg thee give me not an office 
That suits with me so ill. Thou know’st my temper. 

Marc. Wilt thou behold me sinking in my woes ? 

And wilt thou not reach out a friendly arm, 

To raise me from amidst this plunge of sorrows. 

Por. Marcus, thou canst not ask what I’d refuse : 

But here, believe me, I’ve a thousand reasons— 

Marc . I knowthou’lt say my passion’s out of season, 
That Cato’s great example and misfortunes 
Should both conspire to drive it from my thoughts : 

But what s all this to coe who loves like me ! 

Oh, Portius, Portius, from my soul I wish 
Thou didst but know thyself what ’tis to love ! 

Then would’st thou pity and assist thy brother. 

Por. What should I do : if 1 disclose my passion, 
Our friendship’s at an end : if I conceal it, 

The world will call me false to a friend and brother. 

\Aside . 

Marc. But see where Lucia, at her wonted hour, 
Amid the cool of yon high marble arch. 

Enjoys the noon-day breeze ! observe her, Portius ! 
That face, that shape, those eyes, that heav’n of beauty ! 
Observe her well, and blame me if thou canst. 

Por. She sees us and advances- 

Marc. I’ll withdraw, 

And leave you for a while. Remember, Portius, 

Thy brother’s life depends upon thy tongue. [£*//• 





Act III.] 


CATO. 


29 


SCENE II. 

Lucia, Portius. 

Luc. Did not I see your brother Marcus here ? 

Why did he fly the place, and shun my presence ? 

For. Oh, Lucia, language is too faint to shew 
His rage of love ; it preys upon his life ; 

He pines, he sickens, he despairs, he dies j 
His passions and his virtues lie confus’d. 

And mixt together in so wild a tumult, 

That the whole man is quite difigur’d in him. 

Heav’ns ! would one think ’twere possible for love 
To make such ravage in a noble soul ! 

Oh, Lucia, I’m distress’d ! my heart bleeds for him ; 
Ev’n now, while thus I stand blest in thy presence, 

A secret damp of grief comes o’er my thoughts, 

And I’m unhappy, though thou smil’st upon me. 

Luc. How wilt thou guard thy honour, in the shocl^ 
Of love and friendship.! think betimes, my Portius, 
Think how the nuptial tie, that might ensure 
Our mutual bliss, would raise to such a height 
Thy brother’s griefs, as might perhaps destroy him. 
Pot\ Alas, poor youth i what dost thou think, my 
Lucia ? 

His gen’rous, open, undesigning heart 
Has begg’d his rival to solicit for him. 

Then do not strike him dead with a denial, 

But hold him up in life, and cheer his soul 
With the faint glimm’ring of a doubtful hope ; 

Perhaps when we have pass’d these gloomy hours, 

And weather’d out the storm that beats upon us-. 

Luc. No, Portius, no ! I see thy sister’s tears, 

Thy father’s anguish, and thy brother’s death, 

In the pursuit of our ill-fated loves. 

And, Portius, here I swear, to heav’n I swear, 

To heav’n and all the pow’rs that judge mankind, 
Never to mix my plighted hands with thine, 

While such a cloud of mischiefs hangs about us, 

But to forget our loves, and drive thee out 

From all my thoughts, as far—as 1 am able. 



40 CATO. [Act III. 

Por. What hast thou said ! Pm thunderstruck— 

recal 

Those hasty words, or I am lost for ever. 

Lite. Has not the vow already past my lips ? 

The gods have heard it, and ’tis seal’d in heav’n. 

May all the vengeance that was ever pour’d 
On perjur’d heads o’erwhelm me, if I break it ! 

[.After a pause. 

Por. Fix’d in astonishment, I gaze upon thee, 

.'Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav’n, 

Who pants for breath, and stiffens, yet alive, 

In dreadful looks : a monument of wrath ! 

Luc. At length I’ve acted my severest part, 

I feel the woman breaking in upon me, 

And melt about my heart ! my tears will flow. 

But oh I’ll think no more ! the hand of fate 
Has torn thee from me, and I must forget thee. 

Por. Hard hearted, cruel maid ! 

Luc. Oh stop those sounds, 

Those killing sounds 1 Why dost thou frown upon me l 
My blood runs cold, my heart forgets to heave, 

And life itself goes outsat thy displeasure. 

The gods forbid us to indulge our loves, 

But oh ! I cannot bear thy hate and live ! 

Por. Talk not of love, thou never knew’st its force. 
I’ve been deluded, led into a dream 
Of fancied bliss. O Lucia, cruel maid ! 

Thy dreadful vow, laden with death, still sounds 
In my stunn’d ears. What shall I say or do ? 

Quick, let us part ! perdition’s in thy presence, 

And horrour dwells about thee !—-Ha, she faints l 

Wretch that I am, what has my rashness done ! 

Lucia, thou injur’d innocent ! thou best 
And loveliest of thy sex ! awake, my Lucia, 

Or Portius rushes on his sword to join thee. 

-Her imprecations reach not to the tomb, 

They shut not out society in death- 

But hah ! she moves ! life wanders up and down 
Through all her face, and lights up ev’ry charm. 

Luc. O Portius, was this well !—to frown on her 
That lives upon thy smiles I to call in doubt 




Act III.} 


CATO. 


n 


The faith of one expiring at thy feet, 

That loves thee more than ever woman lov’d ! 

—What do I say ? my “half recover’d sense 
Forgets the vow in which my soul is bound. 

Destruction stands betwixt us ! we must part. 

For. Name not the word ! my frighted thoughts tun 
back, 

And startle into madness at the sound. 

Luc . What wouldst thou have me do ? Consider well- 
The train of ills our love would draw behind it. 

Think, Portius, think thou seest thy dying brother 
Stabb’d at his heart, and all besmear’d with blood. 
Storming at heav’n and thee ! thy awful sire 
Sternly demands the cause, th’ accursed cause 
That robs him of his son ! poor Marcia trembles. 

Then tears her hair, and frantick in her griefs, 

Calls out on Lucia ! what could Lucia answer. 

Or how stand up in such a scene of sorrow ? 

For. To my confusion, and eternal grief, 

I must approve the sentence that destroys me. 

The mist, that hung about my mind, clears up ; 

And now, athwart the terrours that thy vow 
Has planted round thee, thou appear’st more fair, 

More amiable, and risest in thy charms. 

Loveliest of women ! heav’n is in thy soul. 

Beauty and virtue shine for ever round thee, 
Bright’ning each other ! thou art all divine ! 

Luc . Portius, no more ! thy words shoot through my 
heart, 

Melt my resolves, and turn me all to love. 

Why are those tears of fondness in thy eyes ? 

Why heaves thy heart ? why swells thy soul with sorrow ? 
It softens me too much.—Farewel, my Portius, 
Farewel, though death is in the word, for ever l 

Par. Stay, Lucia, stay ! what dost thou say ? for 
ever ! 

Luc. Have I not sworn ? if, Portius, thy success 
Must throw thy brother on his fate, farewel, 

Oh, how shall I repeat the word ! for ever ! 

Par. Thus o’er the dying lamp th’ unsteady flame 
Hangs quiv’ring on a point, leaps off by fits. 



m 


CATO. 


[Act nr. 


And falls again, as loth to quit its hold ; 

—Thou must not go* my soul still hovers o’er thee, 
And can’t get loose. 

Luc. If the firm Portius shake 
To hear of parting, think what Lucia suffers ! 

Por. ’Tis true ; unruffled and serene I’ve met 
The common accidents of life : but here 
Such an unlook’d for storm of ills falls on me. 

It beats down all my strength. I cannot bear it. 

We must not part. 

Luc, What dost thou say ? not part ? 

Hast thou forgot the vow that I have made ? 

Are there not heav’ns, and gods, and thunder o’er us ! 
—But see, thy brother Marcus bends this way ! 

I sicken at the sight. Once more farewel, 

Farewel, and know thou wrong’st me if thou think’st 
Ever was love, or ever grief, like mine. [Exit, 

SCENE III. 

Marcus, Portius. 

Mar. Portius, what hopes ! how stands she ? am X 
doom’d 

To life or death ? 

For, What wouldst thou have me say ? 

Mar, What means this pensive posture ? thou ap- 
pear’st 

Like one amaz’d and terrified. 

Par, I’ve reason. 

Mar. Thy downcast looks, and thy disorder’d 
thoughts 

Tell me my fate, I ask not the success 
My cause has found. 

Por. I’m griev’d I undertook it. 

Mar . What ! does the barbarous maid insult my 
heart, 

My aching heart ! and triumph in my pains ? 

—That I could cast her from my thoughts for ever ! 

Por. Away ! you’re too suspicious in your griefs : 
Lucia, though sworn never to think of love, 
Compassionates your pains, and pities you. 




Act III.] 


CATO. 


43 


Mar. Compassionates my pains, and pities me.! 

What is compassion when , tis void of love ? 

Fool that I was, to choose so cold a friend 
To urge my cause ! compassionates my pains I 
Pr’ythee what art, what rhet’rick didst thou use 
To gain this mighty boon ! she pities me ! 

To one that asks the warm returns of love, 
Compassion’s cruelty, ’tis scorn, ’tis death—— 

Por. Marcus, no more ! have I deserv’d this treat¬ 
ment ? 

Mar. What have I said ! O Portius, O forgive me ! 
A soul exasperated in ills, falls out 

With every thing, its friend, itself-But, hah ! 

What means that shout, big with the sounds of war ? 
What new alarm ? 

Por. A second, louder yet, 

'Swells in the winds, and comes more full upon us. 

Mar. Oh, for some glorious cause to fall in battle ! 

| Lucia, thou hast undone me ! thy disdain 
1 Has broke my heart : ’tis death must give me ease. 

Por. Quick, let us hence : who knows if Cato’s life 
Stands sure ! O Marcus, I am warm’d, my heart 
Leaps at the trumpet’s voice, and burns for glory. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

Enter Sem.pronius, with the Leaders of the mutiny . 

Setup. At length the winds are rais’d, the storm blows 
high : 

Be it your care, my friends, to keep it up 
In its full fury, and direct it right, 

Till it has spent itself on Cato’s head. 

Mean while M herd among his friends, and seem 
One of the number, that whate’er arrive, 

My friends and fellow soldiers may be safe. [Exit. 

1 Lead. We all are safe, Sempronius is our friend. 
Sempronius is as brave a man as Cato. 

But hark ! he enters. Bear up boldly to him ; 

Be sure you beat him down, and bind him fast. 

This day will end our toils, and give us rest. 

Fear nothing, for Sempronius is our friend. 







CATO. 


£Act IIL 


SCENE V. 

Enter Cato, Sewpronius, Lucius, Portius, Mar¬ 
cus. 

Cato . Where are those bold intrepid sons of war. 
That greatly turn their backs upon the foe. 

And to their gen’ral send a brave defiance ! 

Semp. Curse on their dastard souls, they stand aston¬ 
ish’d ! [ Aside . 

Cato. Perfidious men ! and will you thus dishonour 
Your past exploits, and sully all your wars ? 

Do you confess ’twas not a zeal for Rome, 

Nor love of liberty, nor thirst of honour, 

Drew you thus far, but hopes to share the spoil 
Of conquer’d towns, and plunder’d provinces ? 

Fir’d with such motives you do well to join 
With Cato’s foes, and follow Caesar’s banners. 

Why did I ’scape th* envenom’d aspic’s rage. 

And all the fiery monsters of the desart, 

To see this day ? why could not Cato fall 
Without your guilt ? behold, ungrateful men, 

Behold my bosom naked to your swords, 

And let the man that’s injur’d strike the blow. 

Which of you all suspects that he is wrong’d* 

Or thinks he suffers greater ills than Cato ? 

Am I distinguish’d from you but by toils, 

Superiour toils, and heavier weight of care ? 

Painful pre-eminence ! 

Semp. By heav’ns they droop ! 

Confusion to the villains ! all is lost. \_Astde. 

Cato. Have you forgotten Lybia’s burning waste. 

Its barren rocks, parch’d earth, and hills of sand. 

Its tainted air, and all its broods of poison ? 

Who was the first to explore th’ untrodden path, 

When life was hazarded in every step ? 

Or, fainting in the long laborious march, 

When on the banks of an unlook’d for stream 
You sunk the river with repeated draughts, 

Who was the last in all your host that thirsted ? 

Semp. If some penurious source by chance appear’d. 
Scanty of waters, when you scoop’d it dry, 


CATO. 


45 


Act III.] 

And offer’d the full helmet up to Cato ^ 

Did he not dash th’ untasted moisture from him ? 

Did he not lead you through the mid-day sun. 

And clouds of dust ? did not his temples glow 
In the same sultry winds and scorching heats ? 

Cato, Hence, worthless men! hence ! and complain 
to Caesar, 

You could not undergo the toils of war, 

Nor bear the hardships that your leader bore. 

Luc. Sec, Cato, see th’ unhappy men ! they weep ! 
Fear, and remorse, and sorrow for their crime, 

Appear in ev’ry look, and plead for mercy. 

Cato . Learn to be honest men, give up your leaders, 
And pardon shall descend on all the rest. 

Semp. Cato, commit these wretches to my care. 

First let ’em each be broken on the rack. 

Then, with what life remains, impal’d and left 
To writhe at leisure round the bloody stake. 

There let ’em hang, and taint the southern wind. 

The partners of their crime will learn obedience, * 
When they look up and see their fellow traitors 
Stuck on a fork, and black’ning in the sun. 

Luc. Sempronius, why, why wilt thou urge the fate 
Of wretched men ? 

Semp. How ! wouldst thou clear rebellion ? 

Lucius (good man) pities the poor offenders 
That would imbrue their hands in Cato’s blood ! 

Cato . Forbear, Sempronius !—See they suffer death, 
But in their deaths remember they are men. 

Strain not the laws to make their tortures grievous. 
Lucius, the base, degen’rate age requires 
Severity, and justice in its rigour ; 

This awes an impious, bold offending world, 

Commands obedience, and gives force to laws. 

When by just vengeance guilty mortals perish, 

The gods behold their punishment with pleasure, 

And lay th’ uplifted thunderbolt aside. 

Semp. Cato, I execute thy will with pleasure. 

Cato. Mean while we’ll sacrifice to Liberty. 
Remember, O my friends, the laws, the rights, 

The gen’rous plan of power deliver’d down, 


46 


CATO. 


[Act III. 

From age to age, by your renown’d forefathers, 

(So dearly bought, the price of so much blood) 

O let it never perish in your hands ! 

But piously transmit it to your children. 

Do thou, great Liberty, inspire our souls, 

And make our liv^s in thy possession happy. 

Or our deaths glorious in thy just defence. 

[Exit Cato, 

SCENE VI. 

Sempronius, and the Leaders of the mutiny. 

1 Lead. Sempronius, you have acted like yourself ; 
One would have thought you had been half in earnest. 

Semp. Villain, stand off ! base grov’ling worthless 
wretches, 

Mongrels in faction, poor faint hearted traitors ! 

2 Lead. Nay, now you carry it too far, Sempronius ; 
Throw off the mask, there are none here but friends. 

Semp. Know, villains, when such paltry slaves pre¬ 
sume 

To mix in treason, if the plot succeeds, 

They’re thrown neglected by : but if it fails. 

They’re sure to die like dogs, as you shall do. 

Here, take these factious monsters, drag ’em forth 
To sudden death. 

Enter Guards. 

1 Lead. Nay, since it comes to this— 

Semp. Despatch ’em quick, but first pluck out their 
tongues, 

Lest with their dying breath they sow sedition., 

[Exeunt Guards with their Leaders , 

SCENE VII. 

Syp h ax and Sempronius. 

Syph. Our first design, my friend, has prov’d abortive $ 
Still there remains an after-game to play : 

My 'troops are mounted : their Numidian steeds 
Snuff up the wind, and long to scour the desart r 






CATO. 


4 7 


Act IV.] 

Let but Sempronms head us in our flight, 

We’ll force the gate where Marcus keeps his guard. 
And hew down all that would oppose our passage. 

A day will bring us into Cscsar’s camp. 

Setup. Confusion ! I have fail’d of half my purpose : 
Marcia, the charming Marcia’s left behind ! 

Syph. How ! will Sempronius turn a woman’s slave !■ 
Semp. Think not thy friend can ever feel the soft 
Unmanly warmth and tenderness of love. 

Syphax, I long to clasp that haughty maid, 

And bend her stubborn virtue to my passion; 

When I have gone thus far, I’ll cast her off. 

Syph. Well said ! that’s spoken like thyself, Sempro¬ 
nius ; 

What hinders then, but that thou find her out, 

And hurry her away by manly force ? 

Semp. But how to gain admission ? for access 
Is giv’n to none but Juba, and her brothers. 

Syph . Thou shalt have Juba’s dress and Juba’s guards r 
The doors will open, when Numidia’s prince 
Seems to appear before the slaves that watch them. 
Semp. Heav’ns, what a thought is there ! Marcia'’$ 
my own ! 

How will my bosom swell with anxious joy, 

When I behold her struggling in my arms, 

With glowing beauty and disorder’d charms, 

While fear and anger, with alternate grace, 

Pant in her breast, and vary in her face ! 

So Pluto, seiz’d of Proserpine, convey’d 
To hell’s tremendous gloom th’ affrighted maid, 

There grimly smil’d, pleas’d with the beauteous prize, 
Nor envied Jove his sunshine and his skies. 

ACT IV. SCENE I. 

Lucia, and Marcia. 

Luc. NOW tell me, Marcia, tell me from thy soul. 
If thou believ’st ’tis possible for woman 
To suffer greater ills than Lucia suffers ? 


48 


CATO; 


[Act IV. 


Mar. O Lucia, Lucia, might my big-swoln heart 
Vent all its griefs, and give a loose to sorrow, 

Marcia could answer thee in sighs, keep pace 
With all thy woes, and count out tear for tear. 

Luc. 1 know thou’rt doom’d alike, to be belov’d 
By Juba, and thy father’s friend Sempronius. 

But which of these has pow’r to charm like Portius ! 

Mar. Still I must beg thee not to name Sempronius ^ 
Lucia, I like not that loud boist’rous man : 

Juba, to all the brav’ry of a hero. 

Adds softest love, and more than female sweetness ; 
Juba might make the proudest of our sex, 

Any of woman kind, but Marcia, happy. 

Luc. And why not Marcia ? come, you strive in vain 
To hide your thoughts from one who knows too well 
The inward glowing of a heart in love. 

Mar. While Cato lives, his daughter has no right 
To love or hate, but as his choice directs. 

Luc. But should this father give you to Sempronius 1 
Mar. I dare not think he will : but if he should— 
Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer 
Imaginary ills, and fancied tortures ? 

I hear the sound of feet ! they march this way : 

Let ur retire, try if we can drown 
Each softer thought in sense of present danger. 

When love once pleads admission to our hearts 
(In spite of all the virtue we can boast) 

The woman that deliberates is lost. [Exeunt, 

SCENE II. 

Enter Sempronius, dress’d like Juba, with Numidian 
guards . 

Semp. The deer is lodg’d, I’ve track’d her to her covert. 
Be sure you mind the word, and when I give it, 

Rush in at once, and seize upon your prey. 

Let not her cries or tears have force to move you. 

--How will the young Numidian rave to see 

His mistress lost ! if aught could glad my soul, 

Beyond th’ enjoyment of so bright a prize, 

’Twould be to torture that young gay barbarian. 

■-But hark, what noise ! death to my hopes ! ’tis he! 






CATO. 


49 


Act IV.] 

’Tis Juba’s self ! there is but one way left-* 

He must be murder’d, and a passage cut 

Thro’ those his guards—hah, dastards, do you tremble ? 

Or act like men, or by yon azure heav’n- 

Enter Juba. 

Jub. What do I see ? who’s this that dares usurp 
The guards and habit of Numidia’s prince ? 

Semp. One that was born to scourge thy arrogance, 
Presumptuous youth ! 

Jub . What can this mean ! Sempronius ! 

Semp . My sword shall answer thee. Have at thy heart. 
Jub . Nay, then beware thy own, proud, barb’rous 
man. 

[Semp. falls. His guards surrender. 
Semp . Curse on my stars ! am I then doom’d to fall 
By a boy’s hand, disfigur’d in a vile 
Numidian dress, and for a worthless woman ! 

Gods, I’m distracted I this my close of life ! 

O for a peal of thunder that would make 

Earth, sea, and air, and heav’n, and Cato tremble. [Dies. 

Jub. With what a spring his furious soul broke loose, 
And left the limbs still quiv’ring on the ground ! 

Hence let us carry off those slaves to Cato, 

That we may there at length unravel all 
This dark design, this mystery of fate. 

[Exit Juba, with prisoners , &s. 

SCENE III. 

Enter Lucia, and Marcia. 

Luc. Sure ’twas the clash of swords; my troubled heart 
Is so cast down, and sunk amidst its sorrows, 

It throbs with fear, and aches at every sound. 

O Marcia, should thy brothers for my sake- 

I die away with horrour at the thought. 

Mar. See, Lucia, see ! here’s blood ! here’s blood 
and murder ! 

Hah ! a Numidian ! heav’ns preserve the prince : 

The face lies muffled up within the garment. 

But; hah ! death to my sight ! a diadem, 

E 2 




50 


CATO. 


[Act IV. 


And purple robes ! O gods ! ’tis he ! ’tis he I 
Juba, the loveliest youth that ever warm’d 
A virgin’s heart, Juba lies dead before us ! 

Luc. Now, Marcia, now call up to thy assistance 
Thy wonted strength, and constancy of mind : 

Thou canst not put it to a greater trial. 

Mar. Lucia, look there, and wonder at my patience! 
Have I not cause to rave, and beat my breast, 

To rend my heart with grief, and run distracted ? 

Luc. What can I think or say to give thee comfort ? 
Mar. Talk not of comfort, ’tis for lighter ills > 
Behold a sight that strikes all comfort dead. 

Enter Juba, listening . 

I will indulge my sorrows, and give way 
To all the pangs and fury of despair ; 

That man, that best of men, deserv’d it from me. 

Jub. What do I hear ? and was the false Sempronius 
That best of men ? O had I fall’n like him, 

And could have thus been mourn’d, I had been happy. 

Luc. Here will I stand, companion in thy woes, 

And help thee with my tears ; when I behold 
A loss like thine, I half forget my own. 

Mar. ’Tis not in fate to ease my tortur’d breast. 
This empty world, to me a joyless desart, 

Has nothing left to make poor Marcia happy. 

Jub. I’m on the rack ! was he so near her heart ! 
Mar. O he was all made up of love and charms ! 
Whatever maid could wish, or man admire : 

Delight of ev’ry eye : when he appear’d, 

A secret pleasure gladden’d all that saw him : 

But, when he talk’d, the proudest Roman blush’d 
To hear his virtue, and old age grew wise. 

Jub. I shall run mad- 

Mar. O Juba ! Juba ! Juba 1 
Jub. What means that voice ? did she not call on 
Juba ? 

Mar. Why do I think on what he was ? he’s dead I 
He’s dead, and never knew how much I lov’d him. 
Lucia, who knows but his poor bleeding heart, 

Amidst its agonies, remember’d Marcia, 






Act IV.] 


CATO. 


51 


And the last words he utter’d call’d me cruel ! 

Alas, he knew not, hapless youth, he knew not 
Marcia’s whole soul was full of love and Juba ! 

t Tub. Where am I ! do I live ! or am indeed 
What Marcia thinks ! all is Elysium round me ! 

Mar. Ye dear remains of the most lov’d of men ! 

Nor modesty nor virtue here forbid 

A last embrace, while thus- 

Jub. See, Marcia, see, [Throwing himself before her. 
The happy Juba lives! he lives to catch 
That dear embrace, and to return it too 
With mutual warmth and eagerness of love. 

Mar. With pleasure and amaze I stand transported ! 
Sure ’tis a dream ! dead and alive at once ! 

If thou art Juba, who lies there ? 

Jub. A wretch, 

Disguis’d like Juba on a curs’d design. 

The tale is long, nor have I heard it out; 

Thy father knows it all. I could not bear 
To leave thee in the neighbourhood of death, 

But flew, in all the haste of love, to find thee ; 

I found thee weeping, and confess, this once 
Am rapt with joy to see my Marcia’s tears. 

Mar. I’ve been surpris’d in an unguarded hour. 

But must not now go back : the love that lay 
Half smother’d in my breast, has broke through all 
Its weak restraints, and burns in its full lustre ; 

I cannot, if I would, conceal it from thee. 

Jub. I’m lost in ecstasy ! and dost thou love, 

Thou charming maid ? 

Mar. And dost thou live to ask it ? 

Jub. This, this is life indeed ! life worth preserving. 
Such life as Juba never felt till now. 

Mar. Believe me, prince, before I thought thee dead, 
I did not know myself how much I lov’d thee. 

Jub. O fortunate mistake ! 

Mar. O happy Marcia I 

Jub. My joy ! my best belov’d ! my only wish ! 
How shall I speak the transport of my soul ! 

Mar. Lucia, thy arm ! oh let me rest upon it ! 

The vital >lood, that had forsook my heart. 


52 


CATO. 


[Act IV. 


Returns again in such tumultuous tides, 

It quite o’ercomes me. Lead to my apartment - --— 

O prince, I blush to think what I have said, 

But fate has wrested the confession from me ; 

Go on, and prosper in the paths of honour : 

Thy virtue will excuse my passion for thee, 

And make the gods propitious to our love. 

[j Exeunt Mar. and Luc. 
Jub. I am so blest, I fear ’tis all a dream. 

Fortune, thou now hast made amends for all 
Thy past unkindness. I absolve my stars. 

What though Numidia add her conquer’d towns 
And provinces to swell the victor’s triumph ! 

Juba will never at his fate repine ; 

Let Cassar have the world, if Marcia’s mine. 

SCENE IV. 

A March at a distance . 

Enter Cato and Lucius. 

Luc, I stand astonished! What, the bold Sempronius! 
That still broke foremost through the crowd of patriots, 
As with a hurricane of zeal transported, 

And virtuous ev’n to madness- 

Cato. Trust me, Lucius, 

Our civil discords have produc’d such crimes, 

Such monstrous crimes, I am surpris’d at nothing. 

— O Lucius, I am sick of this bad world ! 

The daylight and the sun grow painful to me. 

Enter Portius. 

But see where Portius comes ! what means this haste ? 
Why are thy looks thus chang’d ? 

Por. My heart is griev’d, 

I bring such news as will afflict my father. 

Cato. Has Caesar shed more Roman blood ? 

Por. Not so. 

The traitor Syphax, as within the square 
He exercis’d his troops, the signal giv’n. 

Flew off at once with his Numidian horse 



CATO. 


Act IV.] 




To the south gate, where Marcus holds the watch. 

I saw, and call’d to stop him, but in vain ; 

He toss’d his arm aloft, and proudly told me, 

He would not stay and perish like Sempronius. 

Cato, Perfidious men ! but haste, my son, and see 
Thy brother Marcus acts a Roman’s part. [Exit Por. 

- - Lucius, the torrent bears too hard upon me : 

Justice gives way to force : the conquer’d world 
Is Caesar’s : Cato has no business in it. 

Luc, While pride, oppression, and injustice reign, 

The world will still demand her Cato’s presence. 

In pity to mankind, submit to Caesar, 

And reconcile thy mighty soul to life. 

Cato, Would Lucius have me live to swell the number 
Of Caesar’s slaves, or by a base submission 
Give up the cause of Rome, and own a tyrant ? 

Luc. The victor never will impose on Cato 
Ungen’rous terms. His enemies confess, 

The virtues of humanity are Caesar’s. 

Cato. Curse on his virtues! they’ve undone his country 

Such popular humanity is treason.- 

But see young Juba ! the good youth appears 
Full of the guilt of his perfidious subjects. 

Luc . Alas, poor Prince ! his fate deserves compassion 

Enter Juba. 

Juba. I blush and am confounded to appear 
Before thy presence, Cato. 

Cato. What’s thy crime ? 

Juba. I’m a Numidian. 

Cato. And a brave one too. 

Thou hast a Roman soul. 

Juba. Hast thou not heard 
Of my false countrymen ? 

Cato. Alas, young prince, 

Falsehood and fraud shoot up in ev’ry soil, 

The product of all climes-Rome has its Caesars. 

Juba. ’Tis gen’rous thus to comfort the distress’d. 
Cato. ’Tis just to give applause where ’tis deserv’d :* 
Thy virtue, prince, has stood the test of fortune. 


54 


CATO. 


[Act IV. 

Like purest gold, that, tortur’d in the furnace, 

Comes out more bright, and brings forth all its weight. 

Juba. What shall I answer thee ? my ravish’d heart 
O’erflows with secret joy : I’d rather gain 
Thy praise, O Cato, than Numidia’s empire. 

Re-enter Portius. 

Por. Misfortune on misfortune ! grief on grief l 

My brother Marcus- 

Cato. Hah ! what has he done ? 

Has he forsook his post ? has he giv’n way ? 

Did he look tamely on, and let ’em pass ? 

Por . Scarce had I left my father but I met him 
Borne on the shields of his surviving soldiers, 

Breathless and pale, and cover’d o’er with wounds. 
Long, at the head of his few faithful friends, 

He stood the shock of a whole host of foes, 

Till obstinately brave, and bent on death. 

Oppress’d with multitudes, he greatly fell. 

Cato. I’m satisfied. 

Por. Nor did he fall before 

His sword had pierc’d thro’ the false heart of Syphax-. 

Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor 

Grin in the pangs of death, and bite the ground. 

Cato. Thanks to the gods ! ray boy has done his duty* 

-Portius, when I am dead, be sure thou place 

His urn near mine. 

Por. Long may they keep asunder ! 

Luc. O Cato, arm thy soul with all its patience : 

See where the corpse of thy dead son approaches 
The citizens and senators alarm’d, 

Have gather’d round it, and attend it weeping. 

[Cato meeting the corpse. 

Cato. Welcome, my son ! here lay him down, my 
friends. 

Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure 
The bloody corse, and count those glorious wounds. 

-How beautiful is death, when earn’d by virtue ! 

Who would not be that youth ? what pity is it 
That we can die but once to serve our country ! 

——'Why sits this sadness on your brows, my friends t 



Act IV.] 


CATO. 


I should have blush’d if Cato’s house had stood 
Secure and flourish’d in a civil war. 

-Portius, behold thy brother, and remember 

Thy life is not thy own, when Rome demands it. 

Juba . Was ever man like this .! [Aside* 

Cato. Alas, my friends ! 

Why mourn you thus ? let not a private loss 
Afflict your hearts. ’Tis Rome requires our tears. 

The mistress of the world, the scat of empire, 

The nurse of heroes, the delight of gods, 

That humbled the proud tyrants of the earth. 

And set the nations free, Rome is no more ! 

O liberty ! O virtue ! O my country ! 

Juba. Behold that upright man ! Rome fills his eyes 
With tears that flow’d not o’er his own dead son. [.Aside\ 
Cato. Whate’er the Roman virtue has subdu’d, 

The sun’s whole course, the day and year, are Caesar’s. 
For him the self-devoted Decii dy’d, 

The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios conquer’d : 

Ev’n Pompey fought for Caesar. Oh my friends ! 

How is the toil of fate, the work of ages, 

The Roman empire fall’n ! O curs’d ambition ! 

Fall’n into Caesar’s hands ! Our great forefathers 
Had left him nought to conquer but his country. 

Juba. While Cato lives, Caesar will blush to see 
Mankind enslav’d* and be asham’d of empire. 

Cato. Caesar asham’d ! has not he seen Pharsalia ? 
Luc, Cato, ’tis time thou save thyself and us. 

Cato. Lose not a thought on me, I’m out of danger, 
Heav’n will not leave me in the victor’s hand. 

Caesar shall never say, “ I conquer’d Cato.” 

But, oh my friends, your safety fills my heart 
With anxious thoughts : a thousand secret terrours 
Rise in my soul : how shall I save my friends ! 

*Tis now, O Caesar, I begin to fear thee. 

Luc, Caesar has mercy if we ask it of him. 

Cato. Then ask it, I conjure you ! let him know 
Whate’er was done against him, Cato did it. 

Add, if you please, that I request it of him, 

That I myself, with tears, request it of him, 

The virtue of my friends may pass tmpunish’f 





56 


CATO. 


[Act IV. 

Juba, my heart is troubled for thy sake. 

Should I advise thee to regain Numidia, 

Or seek the conquerour ? 

Juba . If I forsake thee 

Whilst I have life, may heav’n abandon Juba ! 

Cato. Thy virtues, prince, if I foresee aright, 

Will one day make thee great. At Rome hereafter, 
’Twill be no crime to have been Cato’s friend. 

Portius, draw near ! My son ! thou oft has seen 
Thy sire engag’d in a corrupted state, 

Wrestling with vice and faction : now thou seest me 
Spent, o’erpow’r’d, despairing of success ; 

Let me advise you to retreat betimes 
To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field. 

Where the great Censor toil’d with his own hands. 
And all our frugal ancestors were bless’d 
In humble virtues, and a rural life ; 

There live retir’d : pray for the peace of Rome : 
Content thyself to be obscurely good. 

When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway, 

The post of honour is a private station. 

Por. I hope my father does not recommend 
A life to Portius, that he scorns himself. 

Cato. Farewel my friends ! if there be any of you 
Who dare not trust the victor’s clemency, 

Know there are ships prepar’d by my command, 
[Their sails already op’ning to the winds) 

That shall convey you to the wish’d for port. 

Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for you ? 

The conquerour draws near. Once more, farewel ! 

If e’er we meet hereafter, we shall meet 
In happier climes, and on a safer shore. 

Where Ccesar never -shall approach us more. 

£ Pointing to his dead son . 
There the brave youth, with love of virtue fir’d, 

Who greatly in his country’s cause expir’d, 

Shall know he conquer’d. The firm patriot there, 
(Who made the welfare of mankind his care) 

Though still by faction, vice, and fortune crost, 

Shall find the gen’rous labour was not lost. 





Act V.] 


CATO. 


O'j 

ACT V. SCENE I. 

Cato solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture ; in his hand 
Plato’s book on the immortality of the soul; a drawn 
sword on the table by him. 

IT must be so—Plato, thou reason’st well !- 

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 

This longing after immortality ? 

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horrour, 

Of falling into nought ? why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 

’Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 

’Tis Heav’n itself, that points out an hereafter, 

And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 

Through what variety of untry’d being, 

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! 
The wide, th’ unbounded prospect lies before me ; 

But shadows* clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 

Here will I hold. If there’s a Pow’r above us, 

(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud 
Through all her works,) he must delight in virtue ; 
And that which he delights in, must be happy. 

But when! or where ?—This world was made for Caesar. 
I’m weary of conjectures—this must end ’em. 

\_Laying his hand on his sword, 
Thus am I doubly arm’d : my death and life, 

My bane and antidote are both before me : 

This in a moment brings me to an end ; 

But this informs me I shall never die. 

The soul, secur’d in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years, 

But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 

Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 

The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds. 

What means this heaviness that hangs upon me ? 

This lethargy that creeps through all my senses ? 




CATO. 


£Act V 


38 




Nature oppress’d, and harass’d out with care, 
Sinks down to rest. This once I’ll favour her, 
That my awaken’d soul may take her flight, 
Renew’d in all her strength, and fresh with life, 
An offering fit for Heav’n. Let guilt or fear 
Disturb man’s rest ; Cato knows neither of ’em, 
Indiff’rent in his choice to sleep or die. 

SCENE II. 


Cato, Portius. 

Cato. But hah ! how’s this ? My son ! why this 
intrusion ? 

Were not my orders that I would be private ? 

Why am I disobey’d ? 

Por. Alas, my father ] 

What means this sword ? this instrument of death ? 
Let we convey it hence. 

Cato. Rash youth, forbear ! 

Por. O let the prayer’s, th’ entreaties of your friends, 
Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from you. 
Cato. Would’st thou betray me ? would’st thou 
give me up 

A slave, a captive into Caesar's hands ? 

Retire, and learn obedience to a father, 

Or know, young man-— 

Por . Look not thus sternly on me ; 

You know I’d rather die than disobey you. 

Cato. ’Tis well ! again I’m master of myself. 

Now, Caesar, let thy troops beset our gates, 

And bar each avenue, thy gath’ring fleets 
O’erspread the sea, and stop up ev’ry port ; 

Cato shall open to himself a passage, 

And mock thy hopes- 

Por. O Sir, forgive your son. 

Whose grief hangs heavy on him ! O my father 
How am I sure it is not the last time 
I e’er shall call you so ! be not displeas’d, 

O be not angry with me whilst I weep, 

And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you 
To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul i 









Act V.] 


CATO. 


59 


Cato : Thou hast been ever good and dutiful. 

[.Embracing him* 

-Weep not, my son, all will be well again : 

The righteous gods, whom I have sought to please. 
Will succour Cato, and preserve his children. 

Por . Your words give comfort to my drooping heart. 
Cato . Portius, thou may’st rely upon my conduct 
Thy father will not act what misbecomes him. 

But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting 
Among thy father’s friends ; see them embark’d ; 

And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them. 

My soul is quite weigh’d down with care, and asks 
The soft refreshment of a moment’s sleep. [Exit. 

Por. My thoughts are more at ease, my heart re¬ 
vives. 

SCENE III. 

Portius and Marcia. 

Por. O Marcia, O my sister, still there’s hope ! 

Our father will not cast away a life 
So needful to us all, and to his country. 

He is retir’d to rest, and seems to cherish 

Thoughts full of peace. He has despatch’d me hence 

With orders that bespeak a mind compos’d, 

And studious for the safety of his friends. 

| Marcia, take care that none disturb his slumbers. [Exit. 
Mar. O ye immortal Powers, that guard the just, 
Watch round his couch, and soften his repose, 

Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul 
With easy dreams : remember all his virtues, 

And show mankind that goodness is your caro. 

SCENE IV. 

Lucia and Marcia. 

Luc. Where is your father, Marcia, where is Cato l 
Mar. Lucia, speak low, he is retir’d to rest. 

Lucia, I feel a gently dawning hope 
Rise in my soul. We shall be happy still. 

Luc. Alas, I tremble when I think on Cato t 
Xn every view, in every thought I tremble ! 




GO 


CATO. 


[Act V. 


Cato is stern and awful as a god, 

He knows not how to wink at human frailty, 

Or pardon weakness that he never felt. 

Mar . Though stern and awful to the foes of Rome,, 
He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild, 

Compassionate and gentle to his friends. 

Fill’d with domestick tenderness, the best. 

The kindest father ! I have ever found him 
Easy, and good, and bounteous to my wishes. 

Luc. ’Tis his consent alone can make us bless’cb 
Marcia, we both are equally involv’d 
in the same intricate, perplex’d distress. 

The cruel hand of fate, that has destroy’d 

Thy brother Marcus, whom we both lament- 

Mar. And ever shall lament; unhappy youth ! 

Luc. Has set my soul at large, and now I stand 
Loose of my vow. But who knows Cato’s thoughts ? 
Who knows how yet he may dispose of Portius ! 

Or how he has determin’d of thyself ? 

Mar. Let him but live ! commit the rest to Heav’n. 

Enter Lucius. 

Luc . Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man ! 

O Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father ; 

Some pow’r invisible supports his soul, 

And bears it up in all its wonted greatness. 

A kind refreshing sleep is fall’n upon him : 

1 saw him stretch’d at ease, his fancy lost 
In pleasing dreams ; as I drew near his couch, 

He smil’d, and cry’d, Caesar, thou canst not hurt me t 
Mar . His mind still labours with some dreadful 
thought. 

Luc. Lucia, why all this grief, these floods of sorrow ? 
Dry up thy tears, my child, we are all safe 
While Cato lives.-His presence will protect us. 

Enter Juba. 

Juba. Lucius, the horsemen are return’d from viewing 
The number, strength, and posture of our foes, 

Who now encamp within a short hour’s march. 

On the high point of yon bright western tower 








Act V.J 


CATO. 


61 


We ken them from afar ; the setting sun 
Plays on their shining arms and burnish’d helmets, 

And covers all the field with gleams of fire. 

Luc. Marcia, , tis time vve should awake thy father. 
Caesar is still dispos’d to give us terms, 

And waits at distance till he hears from Cato. 

Enter Portius. 

Portius, thy. looks speak somewhat of importance. 
What tidings dost thou bring ? methinks I see 
Unusual gladness sparkling in thy eyes. 

Por. As I was hasting to the port, where now 
My father’s friends, impatient for a passage, 

Accuse the ling’ring winds, a sail arriv’d 

From Pompey’s son, who through the realms of Spain, 

Calls out for vengeance on his father’s death, 

And rouses the whole nation up to arms. 

Were Cato at their head, once more might Rome 
Assert her rights, and claim her liberty. 

But hark ! what means that groan ! O give me way. 
And let me fly into my father’s presence. [Exit. 

Luc. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome, 
And in the wild disorder of his soul 
Mourns o’er his country. Hah ! a second groan——* 

Heav’n guard us all !- 

Mar. Alas, ’tis not the voice 
Of one who sleeps ! ’tis agonizing pain, 

’Tis death is in that sound.- 

Re-enter Portius. 

•V 

Por. O sight of woe ! 

O Marcia, what we fear’d is come to pass 1 

Cato is fall’n upon his sword- 

Luc. O Portius, 

Hide all the horrours of thy mournful tale, 

And let us guess the rest. 

Por. I’ve rais’d him up, 

And plac’d him in his chair, where, pale and faint, 

He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from hifljj 
Demands to see his friends. His servants weeping. 
Obsequious to his orders, bear him hither, 

F 2 






62 


CATO. 


[Act V, 

[_Tbe back scene opens , and discovers Cato. 
Mar. O heav’n assist me in this dreadful hour, 

To pay the last sad duties to my father ! 

Jub. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Caesar 

Luc. Now is Rome fall’n indeed !- 

[Cato broughtforward in his chair. 

Cato. Here set me down- 

Portius, come near me—are my friends embark’d ? 

Can any thing be thought of for their service ? 

Whilst yet I live, let me not live in vain. 

«—O Lucius, art thou here—-thou art too good—- 
Let this our friendship live between our children. 

Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia. 

Alas, poor man, he weeps !—Marcia, my daughter, 
"—0 bend me forward ! Juba, loves thee, Marcia : 

A senator of Rome, while Rome surviv’d, 

Would not have match’d his daughter with a king ; 

Rut Caesar’s arms have thrown down all distinction 5 

Whoe’er is brave and virtuous, is a Roman- 

—I’m sick to death—O when shall I get loose 

From this vain world, th’ abode of guilt and sorrow !—~ 

- —And yet, methinks, a beam of light breaks in 

On my departing soul. Alas ! I fear 

I’ve been to hasty. O ye Pcw’rs that search 

The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts, 

If I have done amiss, impute it not !- • 

The best may err, but you are good, and—Oh ! [Dies. 

Luc. There fled the greatest soul that ever warm’d 
A Roman breast. O Cato ! O my friend ! 

Thy will shall be religiously observ’d. 

Rut let us bear this awful corpse to Caesar, 

And lay it in his sight, that it may stand 
A fence betwixt us and the victor’s wrath ; 

Cato, though dead, shall still protect his friends. 

From hence, let fierce contending nations know 
What dire effects from civil discord flow, 

J Tis this that shakes our country with alarms. 

And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms. 

Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife, 

And robs the guilty world ef Cato's life. 

[Exeunt mnts* 


EPILOGUE, 


BY 


'} 


DR* GARTH. 

Spoken by Mrs PORTER 

WHAT odd fantastick things we women do ! "J 
Who would not listen when young lovers woo, > 

But die a maid, yet have the choice of two ! J 
Ladies are often cruel to their cost ; 

To give you pain, themselves they punish most. 

Vows of virginity should well be weigh’d : 

Too oft they’re cancell’d, though in convents made. 
Would you revenge such rash resolves—you may 

Be spiteful-and believe the thing we say. 

We hate you when you’re easily said nay. 

How needless, if you knew us, were your fears ? 

Let love have eyes, and beauty will have ears. 

Our hearts are form’d as you yourselves would choose. 
Too proud to ask, too humble to refuse : 

We give to merit, and to wealth we sell ; 

He sighs with most success who settles well. 

The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix : 

’Tis best repenting in a coach and six. 

Blame not our conduct, since we but pursue 
Those lovely lessons w^ have learn’d from you : 

Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms, 

But wicked wealth usurps the pow’r of charms $ 
What pains to get the gaudy thing you hate, 

To swell in show, and be a wretch in state ! 

At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow ; 

Ev’n churches are no sanctuaries now ; ^ 

There, golden idols all your vows receive, 

She is no goddess that has nought to give. 





EPILOGUE. 


Oh, may once more the happy age appear, 

When words were artless, and the thoughts sincere i 
When gold and grandeur were unenvy’d things, 

And courts less coveted than groves and springs. 
Love then shall only mourn when truth complains. 
And constancy feel transport in its chains. 

Sighs with success their own soft anguish tell, 

And eyes shall utter what the lips conceal : 

Virtue again to its bright station climb, 

And beauty fear no enemy but time ; 

The fair shall listen to desert alone. 

And every Lucia find a Gate's so*. 





V 


TO HER- 


ROYAL HIGHNESS' 


THE 

PRINCESS of WALES, 

WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO, NOV. 1714'. 
—— 

THE muse that oft, with sacred raptures fir’d. 
Has gen’rous thoughts of liberty inspir’d. 

And, boldly rising for Britannia's laws, 

Engag’d great Cato in her country’s cause. 

On you submissive waits,, with hopes assur’d. 

By whom the mighty blessing •stands secur’d. 

And all the glories, that our age adorn, 

Are promis’d to a people yet unborn. 

No longer shall the widow’d land bemoan. 

A broken lineage, and a doubtful throne ; 

But boast her royal progeny’s increase,. 

And count the pledges of her future peace. 

O born to strengthen and to grace our isle \ 

While you, fair Princess, in your offspring smile, 
Supplying charms to the succeeding age, 

Each heav’nly daughter’s triumphs we presage j 
Already see th’ illustrious youths complain, 

And pity monarchs doom’d to sigh in yain. 

Thou too, the darling of our fond desires, 

Whom Albion , op’ning wide her arms, requires, 
With manly valour and attractive air 
Shalt quell the fierce, and captivate the fair. 

O England's younger hope ! in whom conspire 
The mother’s sweetness, and the father’s fire : 

For thee perhaps, e’en now, of kingly race 
Some dawning beauty blooms in every grace, 

Some Carolina , to heaven’s dictates true, 

Who, while the scepter’d rivals vainly sue, 

Thy inborn worth with conscious eyes shall see. 
And slight th’ imperial diadem for thee. 




66 


Pleas’d with the prospect of successive reigns, 

The tuneful tribe no more in daring strains 
Shall vindicate, with pious fears opprest, 

Endanger’d rights, and liberty distrest : 

To milder sounds each muse shall tune the lyre. 

And gratitude, and faith to kings inspire, 

And filial love ; bid impious discord cease, 

And sooth the madding factions into peace ; 

Or rise ambitious in more lofty lays, 

And teach the nation their new monarch’s praise, 
Describe his awful look, and godlike mind, 

And Casar ’s pow’r with Cato’s virtue join’d. 

Meanwhile, bright Princess, who, with graceful ea&e 
And native majesty art form’d to please. 

Behold those arts with a propitious eye, 

That suppliant to their great protectress fly ! 

Then shall they triumph, and the British stage 
Improve her manners, anti refine her age, 

More noble characters expose to view, 

And draw her finish’d heroines from you. 

Nor you the kind indulgence will refuse, 

Skill’d in the labours of the deathless muse : 

The deathless muse with undiminish’d rays 
Through distant times the lovely dame conveys, 

To Gloriana, Waller’s harp was strung. 

The Queen still shines, because the Poet sung. 

E’en all those graces, in your frame combin’d. 

The common fate of mortal charms may find j 
(Content our short-liv’d praises to engage, 

The joy and wonder of a single age,) 

Unless some poet in a lasting song 
To late posterity their fame prolong, 

Instruct our sons the radiant form to prize. 

And see your beauty with their fathers’ eyeSv 




VERSES 


TO THE 


AUTHOUR OF THE 


TRAGEDY OF CATO 


—— 

WHILE you the fierce divided Britons awe, 

And Cato with an equal virtue draw, 

While envy is itself in wonder lost, 

And factions strive who shall applaud you most; 
Forgive the fond ambition of a friend, 

Who hopes himself, not you, to recommend, 

And join th’ applause which all the learn’d bestow 
On one, to whom a perfect work they owe. 

To my light scenes I once inscrib’d your name, 

And impotently strove to borrow fame : 

Soon will that die, which adds thy name to mine ; 
Let me then live, join’d to a w r ork of thine. 

Richard Steele. 


THOUGH Cato shines in Virgil’s epick song, 
Prescribing laws among th’ Elysian throng ; 
Though Lucan’s verse, exalted by his name, 

O’er gods themselves has rais’d the hero’s fame ; 
The Roman stage did ne’er his image see, 
Drawn at full length ; a task reserv’d for thee. 
By thee we view the finish’d figure rise, 

And awful march before our ravish’d eyes ; 

We hear his voice, asserting virtue’s cause ; 

His fate renew’d, our deep attention draws, 





68 


VERSES, tfc. 


Excites by turns our various hopes and fears, 

And all the patriot in thy scene appears. 

On Tiber’s banks thy thought was first inspir’d, 
’Twas there, to some indulgent grove retir’d, 

Rome’s ancient fortunes rolling in thy mind, 

.Thy happy muse this manly work design’d : 

Or in a dream thou saw’st Rome’s genius stand, 

And leading Cato in his sacred hand, 

Point out.the immortal subject of thy lays, 

And ask this labour to record his praise. 

’Tis done—the hero lives, and charms our age ! 
While nobler morals grace the British stage ! 

Great Shakespear’s ghost the solemn strain to hear, 
(Methinks I see the laurell’d shade appear !) 

Will hover o’er the scene, and wondering view 
His fav’rite Brutus rival’d thus by you. 

Such Romairgreatness in each action shines, 

Such Roman eloquence adorns your lines, 

That sure the sibyls’ books this year foretold, 

And in some mystick leaf was seen enroll’d 
4 Rome, turn thy mournful eyes from Afric’s shore, 

4 Norm her sands thy Cato’s tomb explore ! 

4 When thrice six hundred times the circling sun 
4 His annual race shall through the zodiac run, 

4 An Isle remote his monument shall rear, 

( And every gen’rous Briton pay a tear.’ 

3. Hughes. 


WHAT do we see 1 is Cato then become 
A greater name in Britain than in Rome ? 

Does mankind now admire his virtues more, 
Though Lucan, Horace, Virgil wrote before ? 
How will posterity this truth explain ? 

“ Cato begins to live in Anna’s reign 
The world’s great chiefs, in council or in arms, 
Rise in your lines with more exalted charms ; 
I-llustrious deeds in distant nations wrought, 




VERSES, &c. 


69 


And virtues by departed heroes taught, 

Raise in your soul a pure immortal flame, 

Adorn your life, and consecrate your fame ; 

To your renown all ages you subdue, 

And Caesar fought, and Cato bled for you. 

Edward Young. 

All-Souls College, Oxon. 




5 TIS nobly done thus to enrich the stage. 

And raise the thoughts of a degenerate age, 

To show, how endless joys from freedom spring : 
How life in bondage is a worthless thing. 

The inborn greatness of your soul we view. 

You tread the paths frequented by the few. 

With so much strength you write, and so much ease, 
Virtue, and sense ! how durst you hope to please ? 
Yet crowds the sentiments of every line 
Impartial clapp’d, and own’d the work divine. 

Even the sour criticks, who malicious came. 

Eager to censure, and resolv’d to blame, 

Finding the hero regularly rise, 

Great, while he lives, but greater when he dies. 
Sullen approv’d, too obstinate to melt, 

And sicken’d with the pleasures, which they felt. 
Not so the Fair their passions secret kept, 

Silent they heard, but as they heard, they wept. 
When gloriously the blooming Marcus dy’d, 

And Cato told the gods, * Pm satisfy* dd 

See ! how your lays the British youth inflame ! 
They long to shoot, and ripen into fame ; 
Applauding theatres disturb’d their rest, 

And unborn Cato’s heave in every breast; 

Their nightly dreams their daily thoughts repeat, 
And pulses high with fancied glories beat. 

So, griev’d to view the Marathonian spoils. 

The young Themistocles vow’d equal toils ; 


70 


VERSES, <#. 

Did then his schemes of future honours draw 
From the long triumphs which with tears he saw. 
How shall I your unrivall’d worth proclaim, 

Lost in the spreading circle of your fame ! 

We saw you the great William’s praise rehearse, 
And paint Britannia’s joys in Roman verse. 

We heard at distance soft enchanting strains, 

From blooming mountains, and Italian plains. 

Virgil began in English dress to shine, 

His voice, his looks, his grandeur still divine. 

From him too soon unfriendly you withdrew, 

But brought the tuneful Ovid to our view. 

Then the delightful theme of every tongue, 

Th’ immortal Marl’brough was your darling song ; 
From clime to clime the mighty victor flew, 

From clime to clime as swiftly you pursue ; 

Still with the hero’s glow’d the poet’s flame. 

Still with his conquests you enlarg’d your fame. 
With boundless raptures here the muse could swell, 
And on your Rosamond for ever dwell : 

There opening sweets, and every fragrant flower 
Luxuriant smile, a never-fading bower. 

Next human follies kindly to expose, 

You change from numbers, but not sink in prose : 
Whether in visionary scenes you play, 

Refine our tastes or laugh our crimes away. 

Now, by the buskin’d muse you shine confest. 

The patriot kindles in the poet’s breast. 

Such energy of sense might pleasure raise, 

Though unembellish’d with the charms of phrase : 
,Such charms of phrase would with success be crown 
Though nonsense flow’d in the melodious sound. 

The chastest virgin needs no blushes fear, 

The learn’d themselves, not uninstructed, hear. 

The libertine, in pleasures us’d to roll, 

And idly sport with an immortal soul, 

Here comes, and by the virtuous heathen taught, 
Turns pale, and trembles at the dreadful thought* 
Whene’er you traverse vast Numidia’s plains, 
What sluggish Briton in his isle remains ? 


VERSES, tfc 


71 

When Juba seeks the tiger with delight, 

We beat the thicket, and provoke the fight. 

By the description warm’d, we fondly sweat, 

And in the chilling east-wind pant with heat. 

What eyes behold not, how the stream refines. 

Till by degrees the Jloating mirrour shines ? 

While hurricanes in circling eddies play, 

Tear up the sands, and sweep whole plains away , 

We shrink with horrour, and confess our fear, 

And all the sudden sounding ruin hear. 

When purple robes, distain’d with blood, deceive. 

And make poor Marcia beautifully grieve, 

When she her secret thoughts no more conceals, 
Forgets the woman, and her flame reveals, 

Well may the prince exult with noble pride, 

Not for his Libyan crown, but Roman bride. 

But I in vain on single features dwell, 

While all the parts of the fair piece excel. 

So rich the store, so dubious is the feast, 

We know not which to pass, or which to taste. 

The shining incidents so justly fall, 

We may the whole, new scenes of transport call. 

Thus jewellers confound our wand’ring eyes, 

And with variety of gems surprise.. 

Here Saphires, here the Sardian stone is seen, 

The Topaz yellow, and the Jasper green. 

The costly Brilliant there, confus’dly bright. 

From numerous surfaces darts trembling light. 

The different colours mingling in a blaze, 

Silent we stand, unable where to praise. 

Ip pleasure sweetly lost ten thousand ways. 

L. Eusden. 



Trinity College, Cambridge. 


VERSES, &c. 


TOO long hath love engrosss’d Britannia’s stage.- 
And sunk to softness all our tragick rage ; 

By that alone did empires fall or rise, 

And fate depended on a fair one’s eyes ; 

The sweet infection, mixt with dangerous art, 

Debas’d our manhood, while it sooth’d the heart. 
You scorn to raise a grief thyself must blame. 

Nor from our weakness steal a vulgar fame : 

A patriot’s fall may justly melt the mind, 

And tears flow nobly, shed for all mankind. 

How do our souls with gen’rous pleasure glow \ 

Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o’erflow, 

When thy firm hero stands beneath the weight 
Of all his sufferings venerably great ; 

Rome’s poor remains still shelt’ring by his side. 

With conscious virtue, and becoming pride. 

The aged oak thus rears his head in air, 

His sap exhausted, and his branches bare ; 

’Midst storms and earthquakes he maintains his state, 
Fix’d deep in earth, and faften’d by his weight. 

His naked boughs still lend the shepherds aid, 

And his old trunk projects an awful shade. 

Amidst the joys triumphant peace bestows. 

Our patriots sadden at his glorious woes ; 

Awhile they let the world’s great bus’ness wait, 
Anxious for Rome, and sigh for Cato’s fate. 

Here taught how ancient heroes rose to fame, 

Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame. 
Where states and senates well might lend an ear, 

And kings and priests without a blush appear. 

France boasts no more, but fearful to engage, 

Now first pays homage to her rival’s stage. 

Hastes to learn thee, and learning shall submit 
Alike to British arms, and British wit : 

No more she’ll wonder, (forc’d to do us right) 

Who think like Romans, could like Romans fight. 
Thy Oxford smiles this glorious work to see, 

And fondly triumphs in a son like thee. 

The senates, consuls and the gods of Rome, 

Like old acquaintance at their native home, 


VERSES, fefc. 


1 3 


In thee we find : each deed, each word exprest, 

And every thought that swelPd a Roman breast. 

We trace each hint that could thy soul inspire 
With Virgil's judgment, and with Lucan’s fire ; 

We know thy worth, and give us leave to boast. 

We most admire, because we know thee most. 

Tho. TickEll. 


Queen’s College, Qxon. 




Sir, 

WHEN your generous labour first I view’d, 
And Cato’s hands in his own blood imbru’d : 

That scene of death so terrible appears. 

My soul could only thank you with her tears. 

Yet with such wondrous art your skilful hand 
Does all the passions of the soul command, 

That e’en my grief to praise and wonder turn’d, 

And envy’d the great death which first I mourn’d. 

What pen but yours could draw the doubtful strife, 
Of honour struggling with the love of life ? 

Describe the patriot, obstinately good, 

As hovering o’er eternity he stood : 

The wide, th’ unbounded ocean lay before 
His piercing sight, and heav’n the distant shore. 
Secure of endless bliss, with fearless eyes, 1 

He grasps the dagger, and its point defies, > 

And rushes out of life, to snatch the glorious prize. J 
How would old Rome rejoice, to hear you tell 
How just her patriot liv’d, how great he fell ! 
Recount his wond’rous probity and truth, 

And form new Jubas in the British youth. 

Their generous souls, when he resigns his breath, 

Are pleas’d with ruin and in love with death. 

And when her conquering sword Britannia draws, 
Resolve to perish, cr defend her cause. 

G 2 


7* 


VERSES, e*. 


Now first on Albion’s theatre we see, 

A perfect image of what man should be j 
The glorious character is now exprest, 

Of virtue dwelling in a human breast $ 

Drawn at full length by your immortal lines, 

In Cato’s soul, as in her heav’n she shines. 

Digby Cote$. 

All-Souls College, Ox on. 


Left with the Printer by an unknown hand,- 

NOW we may speak, since Cato speaks no more * 
’Tis praise at length, ’twas rapture all before ; 

When crowded theatres with Ios rung 
Sent to the skies, from whence thy genius sprung: 
jE’en civil rage awhile in thine was lost, 

And factions strove but to applaud thee most: 

Nor could enjoyment pall our longing taste, 

But every night was dearer than the last. 

As when old Rome in a malignant hour 
Depriv’d of some returning conquerour. 

Her debt of triumph to the dead discharg’d, 

For fame, for treasure, and her bounds enlarg’d : 

And, while his god-like figure mov’d along, 

Alternate passions fir’d th’ adoring throng ; 

Tears flow’d from every eye, and shouts from every 
tongue : 

oo in thy pompous line has Cato far’d, 

Grac’d with an ample, though a late reward : 

A greater victor we in him revere ; 

A nobler triumph crowns his image here. 

With wonder, as with pleasure, we survey 
A theme so scanty wrought into a play; 

So vast a pile on such foundations plac’d : 

Like Ammon’s temple rear’d on Libya’s waste % 

Behold its glowing paint ! its easy weight ! 

Its nice proportions and stupendous height ! 


VERSES, &c. 


75 


How chaste the conduct, how divine the rage ! 

A Roman worthy on a Grecian stage ! 

But where shall Cato’s praise begin or end j ^ 
Inclin’d to melt, and yet untaught to bend, L 
The firmest patriot, and the gentlest friend ! J 
How great his genius when the traitor crowd 
Ready to strike the blow their fury vow’d ; 
Quell’d by his look, and list’ning to his lore, 
Learn, like his passions, to rebel no more ! 

When, lavish of his boiling blood, to prove 
The cure of slavish life, and slighted love, 

Brave Marcus new in early death appears, 

While Cato counts his wounds, and not his years j 
Who, checking private grief, the publick mourns. 
Commands the pity he so greatly scorns. 

But when he strikes (to crown his gen’rous part) 
That honest, staunch, impracticable heart ; 

No tears, no sobs pursue his parting breath J 
The dying Roman shames the pomp of death. 

O sacred freedom, which the pow’rs bestow 
To season blessings and to soften woe ; 

Plant of our growth, and aim of all our cares, 
The toil of ages, and the crown of wars : 

If taught by thee, the Poet’s wit has flow’d 
In strains as precious as his hero’s blood ; 
Preserve those strains, an everlasting charm 
To keep that blood, and thy remembrance warm 5 
Be this thy guardian image still secure, 

In vain shall force invade, or fraud allure; 

Our great Palladium shall perform its part, 

Fix’d and enshrin’d in every British heart. 




THE mind to virtue is by verse subdued ; 
And the true Poet is a publick good. 

This Britain feels, while, by your lines inspir’d, 
Her freeborn son 3 to glorious thoughts are fir’d. 



76 


VERSES, €sf«r. 


In Rome had you espous’d the vanquish’d cause, 
Inflam’d her senate, and upheld her laws ; 

Your many scenes had liberty restor’d, 

And giv’n the just success to Cato’s sword : 

O’er Caesar’s arms your genius had prevail’d, 

And the muse triumph’d, where the patriot fail’d. 

Ambr. Phillips. 


































]ROS'AjWOJV]D ) 

AN 

OPERA. 




V 












- -■ 
















fUJTHOUR 


SOSAMOm 

-Ne forte pudow 

Sit tibi rausa lyrap solers, et cantor Apollo, 

By Mr. TICKELL. 


THE Opera, first Italian masters taught. 

Enrich’d with songs, but innocent of thought. 
Britannia’s learned theatre disdains 
Melodious trifles, and enervate strains ; 

And blushes on her injur’d stage to see 
Nonsense well tun’d, and sweet stupidity. 

No charms are wanting to thy artful song, 

Soft as Corelli, but as Virgil strong. 

From words so sweet new grace the notes receive, 
And musick borrows helps, she us’d to give. 

Thy style hath match’d what ancient Romans knew, 
Thy flowing numbers far excel the new ; 

Their cadence in such easy eound convey’d, 

That height of thought may seem superfluous aid ; 
Yet in such charms the noble thoughts abound. 

That needless seem the sweets of easy sound. 

Landscapes how gay the bow’ry grotto yields. 
Which thought creates, and lavish fancy builds ! 
What art can trace the visionary scenes, 

The flow’ry groves, and everlasting greens, 

The babbling sounds that mimick echo plays, 

The fairy shade, and its eternal maze, 




TO THE AUTHOR, &c. 


SO 

Nature and art in all their charms combin’d. 

And all Elysium to one view confin’d ! 

No farther could imagination roam, 

Till Vanbrugh fram’d, and Marlbro’ rais’d the dome* 
Ten thousand pangs my anxious bosom tear. 

When drown’d in tears I see th’ imploring fair : 

When bards less soft the moving words supply, 

A seeming justice dooms the nymph to die ; 

But here she begs, nor can she beg in vain, 

(In dirges thus expiring swans complain) 

Each verse so swells, expressive of her woes. 

And ev’ry tear in lines so mournful flows : 

We, 6pite of fame, her fate revers’d believe, 

O’erlook her crimes, and think she ought to live. 

Let joy transport fair Rosamonda’s shade. 

And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid. 

While now perhaps with Dido’s ghost she roves, 

And hears and tells the Story of their loves. 

Alike they mourn, alike they bless their fate. 

Since love, which made ’em wretched, makes ’em 
great, 

Nor longer that relentless doom bemoan. 

Which gain’d a Virgil, and an Addison. 

Accept, great monarch of the British lays. 

The tribute song an humble subject pays. 

So tries the artless lark her early flight, 

And soars, to hail the god of verse and light, 

Unrivall’d as thy merit be thy fame, 

And thy own laurels shade thy envied name : 

Thy name, the boast of all the tuneful choir, 

Shall tremble on the strings of ev’ry lyre ; 

While the charm’d reader with the thought complies, “J 
Feels corresponding joys or sorrows rise, v 

And views thy Rosamond with Henry’s eyes. j 





DRAMATIS PERSONA'.. 


>mcccc< 

MEN. 


King Henry. 

Sir Trusty, keeper of the Bower. 
Page. 

Messenger. 


WOMEN. 

Queen Elinor. 

Rosamond. 

Grideline, wife tojz ir Trusty. 

Guardian Angels, &c. 


SCENE , WOODSTOCK PARK. 




ROSAMOND 




>MCM< 


ACT I. 


SCENE 


I. 


A Prospect of Woodstock Park, terminating in 
Bj<wer. 


Enter Queen and Page. 

Queen . WHAT place is here ! 

What scenes appear J 
Where’er I turn my eyes, 

All around, 

Enchanted ground, 

And soft Elysiums rise : 

Flow’ry mountains, 

Mossy fountains, 

Shady woods. 

Crystal floods. 

With wild variety surprise. 

i * As o’er the hollow vaults we walk, 

‘ A hundred echos round us talk : 

4 From hill to hill the voice is tost, 

4 Rocks rebounding, 

4 Caves resounding, 

4 Not a single word is lost.’ 

Page. There gentle Rosamond immur’d, 

Lives from the world and you secur’d. 

* 

* Alluding to the famous echo in Woodstock Park. 




84 


ROSAMOND. 


[Act I. 


Queen. Gurse on the name ! I faint, I die, 

With secret pangs of jealousy.- [Aside. 

Page. There does the pensive beauty mourn, 

And languish for her Lord’s return. 

Queen. Death and confusion \ I’m too slow— [Aside. 

Show me the happy mansion, show- 

Page. Great Henry there- 

Queen. Trider, no more !- 

Page . -Great Henry there, 

Will soon forget the toils of war. 

Queen. No more ! the happy mansion show, 

That holds this lovely, guilty foe. 

My wrath, like that of heav’n, shall rise, 

And blast her in her Paradise. 

Page. * Behold on yonder rising ground, 

* The bower, that wanders, 

* In meanders, 

* Ever bending, 

* Never ending, 

1 Glades on glades, 

* Shades in shades, 

‘ Running an eternal round.’ 

Queen. In such an endless maze I rove, 

Lost in labyrinths of love. 

My breast -with hoarded vengeance burns, 
While fear and rage, 

With hope engage, 

And rule my wav’ring soul by turns- 
Page. The path yon verdant field divides. 

Which to the soft confinement guides. 

Queen. Eleonora, think betimes, 

What are thy hated rival’s crimes ! 

Whither, ah whither dost thou go ? 

What has she done to move thee so ! 

—Does she not warm with guilty fires. 

The faithless lord of my desires ? 

Have not her fatal arts remov’d 
My Henry from my arms ? 

5 Tis her crime to be lov’d, 

’Tis her crime to have charms. 




Act I.] ROSAMOND. 

Let us fly, let us fly, 

She shall die, she shall die. 

4 I feel, I feel my heart relent : 

4 How could the fair be innocent ! 

4 To a monarch like mine, 

* Who would not resign ! 

4 One so great and so brave, 

4 All hearts must enslave.’ 

Page* Hark, hark ! what sound invades my ear : 
The conquerour’s approach I hear. 

He comes, victorious Henry comes ! 
Hautboys, trumpets, fifes and drums, 

In dreadful concert join’d, 

Send from afar, 

A sound of war, 

And fill with borrour ev’ry wind. 

Queen. Henry returns, from danger free ! 

Henry returns !-but not to me. 

He comes his Rosamond to greet, 

And lay his laurels at her feet, 

His vows impatient to renew ; 

His vows, to Eleonora due. 

Here shall the happy nymph detain, 

(While of his absence I complain) 

Hid in her mazy, wanton bower. 

My lord, my life, my conquerour. 

4 No, no, ’tis decreed, 

4 The traitress shall bleed ; 

4 No fear shall alarm, 

* No pity disarm ! 

4 In my rage shall be seen, 

4 The revenge of a.Queen/ 

SCENE II. 

The Entry of the Bower. 

Sir Trusty, Knight of the Bower, joIus . 

4 How unhappy is he, 

4 That is ty’d to a she, 

4 And fam’d for his wit and his beauty ! 

H 2 


85 







ROSAMOND. 


[Act I. 


S 6 


* For of us pretty fellows, 

* Our wives are so jealous, 

‘ They ne’er have enough of our duty.’ 

But hah ! my limbs begin to quiver, 

I glow, I burn, I freeze, 1 shiver : 

Whence rises this convulsive strife ? 

I smell a shrew ! 

My fears are true, 

I see noy wife. 

SCENE III. 

Grideline and Sir Trusty. 

Grid. Faithless varlet, art thou there 1 

Sir Tr. My love, my dove, my charming fair ! 

Grid. Monster, thy wheedling tricks I know. 

Sir Tr. Why wilt th#u call thy turtle so ! 

.Grid. Cheat not me with false caresses. 

Sir. Tr. Let me stop thy mouth with kisses. 

Grid. Those to fair Rosamond are due. 

Sir Tr. She is not half so fair as you. 

Grid. She views thee with a lover’s eye. 

Sir Tr. I’ll still be thine, and let her die. 

Grid. No, no, ’tis plain. Thy frauds I see, 

Traitor to thy king and me ! 

Sir Tr. 1 O Grideline ! consult thy glass, 
t Behold that sweet bewitching face, 

4 Those blooming cheeks, that lovely hue ! 

4 Ev’ry feature 
4 (Charming creature) 

4 Will convince you I am true. 

Grid. 4 O how blest were Grideline, 

4 Could I call Sir Trusty mine ! 

4 Did he not cover amorous wiles 
1 With soft, but ah ! deceiving smiles : 

4 How should I revel in delight, 

4 The spouse of such a peerless knight !’ 

Sir Tr. At length the storm begins to cease, 

Pve sooth’d and flatter’d her to peace. 

’Tis now my turn to tyrannize ; [Aside* 


Act I.] 


ROSAMOND. 


87 


I feel, I feel my fury rise ! 

Tigress, be gone. 

Grid. -1 love thee so 

I cannot go. 

Sir Tr. Fly from my passion, beldame, fly ! 

Grid. Why so unkind, Sir Trusty, why ? 

Sir Tr. Thou’rt the plague of my life. 

Grid. I’m a foolish, fond wife. 

Sir Tr. JLet us part, 

Let us part. 

Grid. Will you break my poor heart ? 

Will you break my poor heart ? 

Sir Tr. I will if I can. 

Grid. O barbarous man ! 

From whence doth all this passion flow ? 

Sir Tr. ‘ Thou art ugly and old, 

‘ And a villainous scold. 

Grid. ‘ Thou art a rustick to call me so. 

‘ I’m not ugly, nor old, 

‘ Nor a villainous scold, 

‘ But thou art a rustick to call me so. 

4 Thou traitor, adieu ! 

Sir Tr. * Farewel, thou shrew ! 

Grid. ‘ Thou traitor. 

Sir Tr. ‘ Thou shrew ! 

Both. 1 Adieu ! Adieu !’ [Exit Grid, 

Sir Trusty, solus. 

How hard is our fate, 

W1k> serve in the state, 

And should lay out our cares 
On publick affairs ; 

When conjugal toils, 

And family broils, 

Make all our great labours miscarry ! 

Yet this is the lot 
Of him that has got 
Fair Rosamond’s bower, 

With the clue in his power, 

And is courted by all, 








8$ 


ROSAMOND. 


[Act I. 


Both the great and the small, 

As principal pimp to the mighty King Harry. 
But see, the pensive fair draws near : 

I’ll at a distance stand and hear. 

SCENE IV. 

Rosamond and Sir Trusty. 

Ros. From walk to walk, from shade to shade. 
From stream to purling stream convey’d. 
Through all the mazes of the grove, 
Through all the mingling tracks I rove. 
Turning, 

Burning, 

Changing, 

Ranging, 

Full of grief and full of love, 

Impatient for my lord’s return, 

I sigh, I pine, 1 rave, I mourn. 

4 Was ever passion cross’d like mine ? 

4 To rend my breast, 

4 And break my rest, 

4 A thousand thousand ills combine, 

4 Absence wounds me, 

4 Fear surrounds me, 

* Guilt confounds me, 

4 Was ever passion cross’d like mine 
Sir Tr. What heart of stone 
Can hear her moan, 

And not in dumps so doleful join ! [Ap 
Ros . Flow does my constant grief deface 
The pleasures of this happy place j. 

In vain the spring my senses greets 
In all her colours, all her sweets ; 

To me the rose 
No longer glows, 

Every plant 
Has lost its scent : 

The vernal blooms of various hue, 

1 he blossoms fresh with morning dew, 


Act I»] 


ROSAMOND* 


89 


The breeze, that sweeps these fragrant bowers, 
Fill’d with the breath of opting flow’rs, 
Purple scenes, 

Winding greens. 

Glooms inviting, 

Birds delighting, 

(Nature’s softest, sweetest store,) 

Charm my tortur’d soul no more. 

‘ Ye powers, I rave, I faint, I die : 

‘ Why so slow ! great Henry, why ! 

‘ From death and alarms, 

‘ Fly, fly to my arms, 

* Fly to my arms, my monarch, fly !’ 

Sir Tr. How much more bless’d would lovers be, 

Did all the whining fools agree 
To live like Grideline and me ! [Apart. 

Ros* O Rosamond, behold too late, 

And tremble at thy future fate ! 

Curse this unhappy, guilty face, 

Every charm, and every grace. 

That to thy ruin made their way, 

And led thine innocence astray 
At home thou seest thy queen enrag’d, 
Abroad thy absent lord engag’d 
In wars, that may our loves disjoin, 

And end at once his life and mine. 

Sir Tr. Such cold complaints befit a nun : 

If she turns honest, I’m undone ! [Apart. 
Ros. * Beneath some hoary mountain 

* I’ll lay me down and weep, 

4 Or near some warbling fountain- 
4 Bewail myself asleep ; 

• Where feather’d choirs combining 

* With gentle murm’ring streams, 

4 And winds in concert joining, 

4 Raise sadly pleasing dreams.’ [ Exit Ros. 

Sir Trusty, solus. 

What savage tiger would not pity 
A damsel so distress’d and pretty ! 






ROSAMOND. 


[Act I. 


But hah ! a sound my bower TO^des, 

[Trumpets flourish* 

And echos through the winding shades ; 

J Tis Henry’s march ! the tune I know : 

A messenger ! it must be so. 

SCENE V. 

A Messenger and Sir Trusty. 

Ales, Great Henry comes ! with love opprest; 
Prepare to lodge the royal guest. 

From purple fields with slaughter spread, 

From rivers choak’d with heaps of dead, 

From glorious and immortal toils, 

Loaden with honour, rich with spoils. 

Great Henry comes ! prepare thy bower 
To lodge the mighty conquerour. 

Sir Tr. The bower and lady both are drest, 

And ready to receive their guest. 

Ales. Hither the victor flies, (his queen 
And royal progeny unseen ;) 

Soon as the British shores he reach’d. 

Hither his foaming courser stretch’d : 

And see ! his eager steps prevent 
The message that himself hath sent ! 

Sir Tr. Here will I stand , . 

With hat in hand, " ^ 

Obsequiously to meet him, 

And must endeavour 
At behaviour, 

That’s suitable to greet him. 

SCENE VI. 

Enter King Henry, after aflourish of Trumpets. 

King. Where is my love ! my Rosamond ! 

Sir Tr. First, as in strictest duty bound, 

I kiss your royal hand. 

King. Where is my life ! my Rosamond ! 

Sir Tr. Next with submission most profound, 

I welcome you to land. 


ROSAMOND. 


91 


Act I.] 

King. Where is the tender, charming fair ! 

Sir Tr. Let me appear, great Sir, I pray. 
Methodical in what I say. 

King. Where is my love, O tell me where ! 

Sir Tr. For when we have a prince’s ear. 

We should have wit 
To know what’s fit 
For us to speak, and him to hear. 

King. These dull delays I cannot bear. 

Where is my love, O tell me where ! 

Sir Tr. I speak, great Sir, with weeping eyes. 
She raves, alas i 6he faints, she dies. 

King. What dost thou say ? I shake with fear ! 
Sir Tr. Nay, good my liege, with patience hear. 
She raves, and faints, and dies, ’tis true ; 
But raves, and faints, and dies for you. 
King. * Was ever nymph like Rosamond, 

‘ So fair, so faithful, and so fond, 

‘ Adorn’d with ev’ry charm and grace ! 

* I’m all desire 

* My heart’s on fire, 

‘ And leaps and springs to her embrace.’ 

Sir Tr. At the sight of her lover 
She’ll quickly recover. 

What place will you choose 
For first interviews ? 

King. Full in the centre of the grove. 

In yon pavilion made for love, 

Where woodbines, roses, jessamines, 
Amaranths, and eglantines, 

With intermingling sweets have wove 
The parti-colour’d gay alcove. 

Sir Tr. Your Highness, Sir, as I presume, 

Has chose the most convenient gloom ; 
There’s not a spot in all the park 
Has trees so thick, and shades so dark. 
King. Mean while with due attention wait 

To guard the bow’r, and watch the gate ; 
Let neither envy, grief, nor fear, 

Nor lovesick jealousy appear ; 




92 


ROSAMOND. 


[Act II. 


Nor senseless pomp, nor noise intrude 
On this delicious solitude ; 

But pleasure reign through all the grove, 

And all be peace, and all be love. 

* Oh the pleasing, pleasing anguish, 

4 When we love, and when we languish ! 

4 Wishes rising ! 

4 Thoughts surprising ! 

\ Pleasure courting ! 

‘ Charms transporting ! 

4 Fancy viewing 
4 Joys ensuing ! 

4 Oh the pleasing, pleasing anguish !* [ Exeunt . 




ACT II. SCENE I. 

A Pavilion in the middle of the Bower. 

King and Rosamond. 

King. THUS let my weary soul forget 
Restless glory, martial strife, 

Anxious pleasures of the great, 

And gilded cares of life. 

Ros. Thus let me lose, in rising joys, 

Fierce impatience, fond desires. 
Absence that flatt’ring hope destroys. 
And life-consuming fires. 

King. Not the loud British shout that warms 
The warrior’s heart, nor clashing arms, 
Nor fields with hostile banners strow’d. 
Nor life on prostrate Gauls bestow’d, 
Give half the joys that fill my breast. 
While with my Rosamond I’m blest. 

Ros. My Henry is my soul’s delight, 

My wish by day, my dream by night, 


ROSAMOND. 


Act II.] 


$Li 


’Tis not in language to impart. 

The secret meltings of my heart, 

While I my conquerour survey. 

And look my very soul away. 

King. O may the present bliss endure, 

From fortune, time, and death secure ! 

Both. 4 O may the present bliss endure P 
King. My eye could ever gaze, my ear 
Those gentle sounds could ever hear : 

But oh ! with noonday heats opprest, 

My aching temples call for rest ! 

In yon cool grotto’s artful night 
Refreshing slumbers I’ll invite, 

Then seek again my absent fair, 

With all the love a heart can bear. [Exit King. 

Rosamond, sola. 

From whence this sad presaging fear, 

This sudden sigh, this falling tear ? 

Oft in my silent dreams by night 
With such a look I’ve seen him fly, 

Wafted by angels to the sky, 

And lost in endless tracks of light; 

While I abandon’d and forlorn, 

. To dark and dismal deserts born, 

Through lonely wilds have seem’d to stray, 

A long, uncomfortable way. 

* They’re phantoms all; I’ll think no more : 

* My life has endless joys in store. 

‘ Farewel sorrow, farewel fear, 

* They’re phantoms all ! my Henry’s here.’ 

SCENE II. 


A Postern Gate of the Bower. 
Grideline and Pag.e. 

Grid. My stomach swells with secret spite, 
To see my fickle, faithless knight, 
With upright gesture, goodly mien, 
Face of olive, coat of green, 

I 







ROSAMOND. 


[Act II. 


M 


'That charm’d the ladies long ago, 

So little his own worth to know, 

On a mere girl his thoughts to place, 

With dimpled cheeks, and baby face $ 

A child, a chit, that was not born, 

When I did town and court adorn. 

Page. Can any man prefer fifteen 
To venerable Grideline ? 

Grid. He does, my child ; or tell me why 
With weeping eyes so oft I spy 
His whiskers curl’d, and shoe-strings tied, 
A new Toledo by his side, 

In shoulder-belt so trimly plac’d. 

With band so nicely smooth’d and lac’d. 
Page. If Rosamond his garb has view’d, 

The knight is false, the nymph subdu’d. 
Grid. My anxious, boding heart divines 
His falsehood by a thousand signs .: 

Oft o’er the lonely rocks he walks, 

And to the foolish echo talks : 

Oft in the glass he rolls his eye, 

But turns and frowns if I am by ; 

Then my fond easy heart beguiles, 

And thinks of Rosamond, and smiles. 

Page. Well may you feel these soft alarms, 

She has a heart- 

Grid. -And he has charms. 

Page. Your fears are too just- 

Grid. -Too plainly I’ve prov’d. 

Both. ‘ He loves and is lov’d. 

Grid. 6 O merciless fate ! 

Page. * Deplorable state ! 

Grid. ‘To die- 

Page. -‘ To be slain. 

Grid. ‘ By a barbarous swain, 

Both. ‘ That laughs at your pain.’ 

Grid. How should I act ? canst thou advise 
Page. Open the gate, if you are wise ; 

I, in an unsuspected hour, 

..May catch ’em dallying in the bower, rw 






ROSAMOND. 


Act II.] 


$5 


Perhaps their loose amours prevent, 

And keep Sir Trusty innocent. 

Grid. Thou art in truth, 

A forward youth, 

Of wit and parts above thy age ; 

Thou know’st our sex. Thou art a page. 
Page. I’ll do what I can, 

To surprise the false man. 

Grid. Of such a faithful spy I’ve need : 

Go in, and if thy plot succeed, 

Fair youth, thou may’st depend on this. 

I’ll pay thy service with a kiss. [Exit Page. 

Grideline, sola. 

* Pr’ythee Cupid no more, 

‘ Hurl thy darts at threescore, 

‘ To thy girh and thy boys, 

* Give thy pains and thy joys, 

‘ Let Sir Trusty and me, 

‘ From thy frolicks be free.’ [Ex. Grid. 

SCENE III. 

Page, solus* 

O the soft delicious view, 

Ever charming, ever new ! 

Greens of various shades arise, 

Deck’d with flow’rs of various dyes ; 

Paths by meeting paths are crost, 

Alleys in winding alleys lost ; 

Fountains playing through the trees, 

Give coolness to the passing breeze. 

< A thousand fiery scenes appear, 

* Here a grove, a grotto here, 

i Here a rock, and here a stream, 

* Sweet delusion, 

‘ Gay confusion, 

* All a vision, all a dream P 







ROSAMOND. 


[Act IT. 


SCENE IV. 

Queen and Page. 

Queen. At length the bow’ry vaults appear ! 

My bosom heaves, and pants with fear ; 

A thousand checks my heart controul, 

A thousand terrours shake my soul. 

Page. Behold the brazen gate unbarr’d ! 

—She’s fixt in thought, I am not heard. \_Apart- 
Queen. I see, I see my hands embru’d, 

In purple streams of reeking blood : 

I see the victim gasp for breath, 

And start in agonies of death : 

I see my raging dying lord, 

And O, I see myself abhorr’d ! 

Page. My eyes o’erflow, my heart is rent 

To hear Britannia’s queen lament. [ ‘Aside 

Queen. What shall my trembling soul pursue ? 

Page. Behold, great queen, the place in view ! 

Queen. Ye pow’rs instruct me what to do ! 

Page. That bovv’r will show 
The guilty foe. 

Queen. It is decreed—it shall be so ; \_After a pause. 
( I cannot see my Lord repine 
4 (O that I could call him mine !) 

4 Why have not they most charms to move, 

4 Whose bosoms burn with purest love ! ’ 

Page. Her heart with rage and fondness glows, 

O jealousy ! thou hell of woes ! [ Aside 

That conscious scene of love contains 
The fatal cause of all your pains : 

In yonder flow’ry vale she lies, 

Where those fair-blossom’d arbours rise. 

Queen. Let us haste to destroy 
Iler guilt and her joy. 

; Wild and frantick is my grief ! 

4 Fury driving, 

4 Mercy striving, 

4 Heaven in pity send relief ! 


Act II.] 


ROSAMOND. 


97 


* The pangs of love 
‘Ye powers remove, 
i Or dart your thunder at my head : 

‘ Love and despair, 

‘ What heart can bear ! 

* Ease my soul, or strike me dead P [Exeunt. 

SCENE V. 

* The Scene changes to the Pavilion , as before . 
Rosamond, sola . 

1 Transporting pleasure ! who can tell it ! 

‘ When our longing eyes discover 
‘ The kind, the dear, approaching lover, 

* Who can utter or conceal it \* 

A sudden motion shakes the grove : 

I hear the steps of him I love ; 

Prepare, my soul, to meet thy bliss ! 

—Death to my eyes ! what sight is this l 
The queen, th’ offended queen, I see ! 

— Open, O earth! and swallow me ! 

SCENE VI. 

Enter to her the Queen, with a bowl in one hand } and a 
dagger in the other . 

Queen . Thus arm’d with double death I come : 
Behold, vain wretch, behold thy doom 1 
Thy crimes to their full period tend, 

And soon by this, or this, shall end. 

Ros . What shall I say, or how reply 
To threats of injur’d majesty ? 

Queen. ’Tis guilt that does thy tongue controul ; 

Or quickly drain the fatal bowl, 

Or this right hand performs its part, 

And plants a dagger in thy heart. 

Ros . Can Britain’s queen give such commands, 

Or dip in blood those sacred hands ? 

I 2 



98 


ROSAMOND. 


[Act II* 


In her shall such revenge be seen ? 

Far be that from Britain’s queen. 

Queen. How black does my design appear ! 

Was ever mercy so severe ? [ ' Aside. 

Ros. ‘ When tides of youthful blood run high, 

* And scenes of promis’d joys are nigh, 

‘ Health presuming, 

‘ Beauty blooming, 

‘ Oh how dreadful ’tis to die l’ 

Queen. To those whom foul dishonours stain, * 

Life itself should be a pain. 

Ros. Who could resist great Henry’s charms. 

And drive the hero from her arms ? 

‘ Think on the soft, the tender fires, 

6 Melting thoughts and gay desires, 

* That in your own warm bosom rise, 

* When languishing with lovesick eyes, 

‘ That great, that charming man you see : 

‘ Think on yourself, and pity me P 
Queen . And dost thou thus thy guilt deplore ! 

[Offering the dagger to her breast. 
Presumptuous woman ! plead no more ! 

Ros. O queen, your lifted arm restrain ! 

Behold these tears ! 

Queen. -They flow in vain. 

Ros. Look with compassion on my fate 1 

O hear my sighs ) - 

Queen. --They rise too late. 

Hope not a day’s, an hour’s reprieve. 

Ros. Though I live wretched, let me live. 

In some deep dungeon let me lie, 

Cover’d from ev’ry human eye, 

Banish’d the day, debarr’d the light $ 

Where shades of everlasting night 

May this unhappy face disarm, , 

And cast a veil o’er ev’ry charm : 

Offended Hcav’n I’ll there adore, 

Nor see the sun, nor Henry more. 

Queers. * Moving language, shining tears, 

1 Glowing guilt, and graceful fears, 




Act II.] 


ROSAMOND. 


99 


* Kindling pity, kindling rage, 

4 At once provoke me, and assuage/ [Aside. 
Ros. What shall I do to pacify 
Your kindled vengeance ! 

Queen. — *—Thou shalt die. [ Offering the dagger. 

Ros. Give me but one short moment’s stay. 

O Henry, why so far away ? [Aside. 

Queen. Prepare to welter in a flood 

Of streaming gore. [Offering the dagger. 

Ros. -O spare my blood, 

And let me grasp the deadly bowl. 

[Takes the bowl in her hand. 
Queen. Ye pow’rs, how pity rends my soul ! [Aside. 
Ros. Thus prostrate at your feet I fall. 

O let me still for mercy call ! 

[Falling on her knees. 

4 Accept, great queen, like injur’d Heav’n, 

* The soul that begs to be forgiv’n ; 

4 If in the latest gasp of breath, 

4 If in the dreadful pains of death, 

4 When the cold damp bedews your brow, 

4 You hope for mercy, show it now/ 

Queen. Mercy to lighter crimes is due, 

Horrours and death shall thine pursue. 

[Offering the dagger , 
'Ros. Thus I prevent the fatal blow. [Drinks. 

—-—Whither, ah ! whither shall I go ! 

Queen. Where thy past life thou shalt lament, 

And wish thou hadst been innocent. 

Ros. Tyrant ! to aggravate the stroke, 

And wound a heart, already broke ! 

My dying soul with fury burns, 

And slighted grief to madness turns. 

4 Think not, thou authour of my woe, 

4 That Rosamond will leave thee so : 

4 At dead of night, 

4 A glaring spright, 

4 With hideous scrams, 

4 I’ll haunt thy dreams ; 

4 And when the painful night withdraws, 

4 My Henry shall revenge my cause/ 



100 


ROSAMOND. 


[Act II. 


O whither does my frenzy drive ! 

Forgive my rage, your wrongs forgive. 

My veins are froze ; my blood grows chill ; 

The weary springs of life stand still ; 

The sleep of death benumbs all o’er 
My fainting limbs, and I’m no more. 

[Falls on the couch . 

Queen, Hear and observe your queen’s commands. 

[To her attendants . 

Beneath those hills a convent stands, 

Where the fam’d streams of Isis stray ; 

Thither the breathless corse convey, 

And bid the cloister’d maids with care 
The due solemnities prepare. 

[Exeunt with the body < 

4 When vanquish’d foes beneath us lie, 

4 How great it is to bid them die ! 

4 But how much greater to forgive, 

4 And bid a vanquish’d foe to live !’ 

SCENE VII. 

Sir Trusty, in a fright. 

A breathless corpse ! what have I seen ! 

And follow’d by the jealous queen ! 

It must be she ! my fears are true , 

The bowl of pois’nous juice I view. 

How can the fam’d Sir Trusty live 
To hear his master chide and grieve ? 

No ! though I hate such bitter beer, 

Fair Rosamond, I’ll pledge thee here. [ Drinks c 
The King this doleful news shall read 
In lines of my inditing : 

44 Great Sir, [ Writes . 

44 Your Rosamond is dead 
44 As I am at this present writing.” 

4 The bower turns round, my brain’s abus’d, 

4 The labyrinth grows more confus’d. 

4 The thickets dance-1 stretch, I yawn. 

4 Death has tripp’d up my hells—I’m gone/ 

[Staggers and falls * 


Act III.] 


ROSAMOND. 


101 


SCENE VIIL 
Queen, sola. 

The conflict of my mind is o’er. 

And Rosamond shall charm no more. 
Hence ye secret damps of care, 

Fierce disdain, and cold despair, 

Hence ye fears and doubts remove ; 
Hence grief and hate ! 

Ye pains that wait 
On jealousy, the rage of love. 

* My Henry shall be mine alone. 
e The hero shall be all my own ; 

* Nobler joy& possess my heart 

1 Than crowns and sceptres can impart.’ 


><xmce< 


ACT III. SCENE I. 


SCENE, a Grotto, Henry asleep, a cloud descends, in it 
two Angels suppos'd to he the Guardian Spirits of the 
British Kings in War and in Peace. 

1 Ang. BEHOLD th’ unhappy monarch there, 

That claims our tutelary care ! 

2 Ang. In fields of death around his head 

A shield of adamant I spread. 

1 Ang. In hours of peace, unseen, unknown, 

I hover o’er the British throne. 

2 Ang. When hosts of foes with foes engage, 

And round th’ anointed hero rage, 

The cleaving faulchion I misguide, 

And turn the feather’d shaft aside. 

1 Ang. When dark fermenting factions swell, 

And prompt th’ ambitious to rebel, 


102 


ROSAMOND. 


[Act III* 


A thousand terrouis I impart, 

And damp the furious traitor’s heart. 
Both. But oh what influence can move 

The pangs of grief, and rage of love ! 

2 Ang. I’ll fire his soul with mighty themes* 
’Till love before ambition fly. 

1 Ang. I’ll sooth his cares in pleasing dreams, 

’Till grief in joyful raptures die. 

2 Ang. 4 Whatever glorious and renown’d 

4 In British annals can be found : 

* Whatever actions shall adorn 

4 Britannia’s heroes, yet unborn, 

4 In dreadful visions shall succeed ; 

4 On fancied fields the Gaul shall bleed, 

4 Cressy shall stand before his eyes, 

* And Agincourt and Blenheim rise.’ 

I Ang. See, see, he smiles amidst his trance* 
And shakes a visionary lance. 

His brain is fill’d with loud alarms ; 
Shouting armies, clashing arms 
The softer prints of love deface : 

And trumpets sound in ev’ry trace. 

Both . 4 Glory strives ! 

4 The field is won ! 

4 Fame revives, 

4 And love is gone.’ 

1 Ang. To calm 4 thy grief, and lull thy cares. 
Look up and see 
What, after long revolving years, 

Thy bower shall be ! 

When time its beauties shall deface, 
And only with its ruins grace 
The future prospect of the place. 

Behold the glorious pile ascending ! * 
Columns swelling, arches bending, 
Domes in awful pomp arising. 

Art in curious strokes surprising, 

Foes in figur’d fights contending. 
Behold the glorious pile ascending ! 

* Scene changes to the plan of Blenheim castle. 


ROSAMOND. 


103 


Act III.] 

2 Ang. He sees, he sees the great reward 
For Anna’s mighty chief prepar’d ; 

His growing joys no measure keep, 

Too vehement and fierce for sleep. 

1 Ang. 4 Let grief-and love at once engage. 

4 His heart is proof to all their pain ; 

4 Love may plead- 

2 Ang. - 4 And grief may rage- 

Both. 4 But both shall plead and rage in vain.’ 

[The Angels ascend, and the vision disappears. ] 

Henry, starting from the Couch . 

Where have my ravish’d senses been ; 
What joys, what wonders, have I seen j 
The scene yet stands before my eye, 

A thousand glorious deeds that lie 
In deep futurity obscure, 

Fights and triumphs immature. 

Heroes immers’d in time’s dark womb, 
Ripening for mighty years to come, 

Break forth, and to the day display’d, 

My soft inglorious hours upbraid. 
Transported with so bright a scheme. 

My waking life appears a dream. 

* Adieu, ye wanton shades and bowers, 

* Wreaths of myrtle, beds of flowers, 

4 Rosy brakes, 

4 Silver lakes, 

* To love and you 
4 A long adieu !’ 

O Rosamond, O rising woe ! 

Why do my weeping eyes o’erflow ? 

O Rosamond ! O fair distress’d, 

How shall my heart, with grief oppress’d, 
Its unrelenting purpose tell ; 

And take the long, the last farewel! 

4 Rise, glory, rise in all thy charms, 

4 Thy weaving crest, and burnish’d arms, 

4 Spread thy gilded banners round, 

4 Make thy thundering courser bound, 







10 * 


ROSAMOND. 


[Act III. 


* Bid the drum and trumpet join, 

‘ Warm my soul with rage divine ; 

« All thy pomps around thee call: 

1 To conquer love will ask them all. \_EkU. 

SCENE II. 

The scene changes to that part of the lower where Sir 
Trusty lies upon the ground, with the lowl and dag¬ 
ger on the table . 

Enter Queen. 

Every star, and every powV, 

Look down on this important hour; 

Lend your protection and defence 
Every guard of innocence ! 

Help me my Henry to assuage, 

To gain his love, or bear his rage. 

4 Mysterious love, uncertain treasure, 

4 Hast thou more of pain or pleasure ! 

4 Chill'd with tears, 

4 Kill’d with fears, 

4 Endless torments dwell about thee : 

4 Yet who would live, and live without thee !* 
But oh the sight my soul alarms ! 

My Lord appears, I’m all on fire ! 

Why am I banish’d from his arms ? 

My heart’s too full, I must retire. 

£Retires to the end of the stage* 

SCENE III. 

King and Queen. 

King. Some dreadful birth of fate is near : 

Or why, my soul, unus’d to fear, 

With secret horrour dost thou shake ? 

Can dreams such dire impressions make \ 

What means this solemn, silent show ? 

This pomp of death, this scene of woe ! 
Support me, heav’n ! what’s this I read ? 


Act III.] 


ROSAMOND. 


105 


O horrour ! Rosamond is dead. 

What shall I 6 ay, or whither turn ? 

With grief, and rage, and love, I burn : 

From thought to thought my soul is tost, 

And in the whirl of passion lost. 

Why did I not in battle fall, 

Crush’d by the thunder of the Gaul ? 

Why did the spear my bosom miss ? 

Ye pow’rs, was I reserv’d for this ! 

‘ Distracted with woe 4 
4 I’ll rush on the foe 
‘To seek my relief: 

‘ The sword or the dart 
‘ Shall pierce my sad heart, 

* And finish my grief !* 

Queen. Fain would my tongue his griefs appease. 

And give his tortur’d bosom ease. \Astde . 

King. But see ! the cause of all my fears, 

The source of all my grief appears ! 

No unexpected guest is here ; 

The fatal bowl 
Inform’d my soul 
Eleonora was too near. 

Queen . Why do I here my Lord receive ? 

King . Is this the welcome that you give ? 

Queen. Thus should divided lovers meet ? 

Both. 4 And is it thus, ah ! thus we greet!’ 

Queen. What in these guilty shades could you, 
Inglorious conquerour, pursue ? 

King. Cruel woman, what could you ? 

Queen . Degenerate thoughts have fir’d your breast. 
King. The thirst of blood has yours possess’d. 

Queen. 4 A heart so unrepenting, 

King. 6 A rage so unrelenting, 

Both. ( Will for ever 

4 Love dissever, 

4 Will for ever break our rest.’ 

King. Floods of sorrow will I shed 
To mourn the lovely shade ! 

My Rosamond, alas, is dead, 

K 


106 


ROSAMOND. 


[Act III. 


And where, O where convey’d ! 
c So bright a bloom, so soft an air, 

4 Did ever nymph disclose ! 

4 The lily was not half so fair, 

4 Nor half so sweet the rose.’ 

Queen . How is his heart with anguish torn ! [Aside, 
My lord, I cannot see you mourn ; 

The living you lament: while I, 

To be lamented so, could die. 

King. The living ! speak, oh speak again ? 

Why will you dally with my pain ? 

Queen. Were your lov’d Rosamond alive, 

Would not my former wrongs revive ? 

King. Oh no : by rvisions from above. 

Prepar’d for grief, and free’d from love, 

I came to take my last adieu. 

Queen . How am I bless’d if this be true !- [Aside, 

King. And leave th’ unhappy nymph for you, 

But O '- 

Queen . Forbear, nry lord, to grieve, 

And know your Rosamond does live. 

4 If ’tis joy to wound a lover, 

4 How much more to give him ease ? 

4 When his passion we discover, 

4 . Oh how pleasing ’tis to please ! 

4 The bliss re turns, and we receive 
4 Transports greater than we give/ 

King. O' quickly relate 

This riddle of fate ! 

My impatience forgive. 

Does Rosamond live ? 

Queen. The bowl, with drowsy juices fil’d. 

From cold Egyptian drugs distill’d, 

In borrow’d death has clos’d her eyes ; 

But soon the waking nymph shall rise. 

And, in a convent plac’d, admire 
The cloister’d vvalls and virgin choir : 

With them in songs and hymns divine 
The beauteous penitent shall join, 

And bid the guilty world adieu. 







Act III.] 


ROSAMOND. 


107 


King. How am I blest if this be true ! 

Queen. Atoning for herself and you. 

King. I ask no more ! secure the fair 
In life and bliss : I ask not where : 

For ever from my fancy fled 

May the whole world believe her dead. 

That no foul minister of vice 

Again my sinking soul entice 

Its broken passion to renew, 

But let me live and die with you. 

Queen. How does my heart for such a prize 
The vapi censorious world despise, 
Though distant ages, yet unborn, 

For Rosamond shall falsely mourn ; 

And with the present times agree, 

To brand my name with cruelty ; 

How does my heart for such a prize 
The vain censorious world despise ! 

But see your slave, while yet 1 speak, 
From his dull trance unfetter’d break i 
As he the potion shall survive 
Believe your Rosamond alive. 

King. O happy day ! O pleasing view ! 

My queen forgives- 

Queen. -My lord is true. 

King. * No more I’ll change, 

Queen. * No more I’ll grieve : 

Both. 6 But ever thus united live.’ 

Sir Trusty, awaking. 

In which world am I ! all I see, 

Ev’ry thicket, bush and tree, 

So like the place from whence I came, 
That one would swear it were the same. 
My former legs too, by their pace ! 

And by the whiskers, ’tis my face ! 

The self same habit, garb and mein ! 
They ne’er would bury me in green. 


\_Asick. 




108 


ROSAMOND. 


[Act III 


SCENE IV. 

Grideline and Sir Trusty. 

Grid, Have I then liv’d to see this hour. 

And took thee in the very bow’r ? 

Sir Tr. Widow Trusty, why so fine ? 

Why dost thou thus in colours shine ? 
Thou should’st thy husband’s death bewail 
In sable vesture, peak and veil. 

Grid. Forbear these foolish freaks, and see 
How our good king and queen agree. 

Why should not we their step^pursue. 
And do as our superiours do ! 

Sir Tr. Am I bewitch’d, or do I dream ? 

I know hot who, or where I am, 

Or what I hear, or what I see \ 

But this I’m sure, howe’er it be, 

It suits a person in my station 
T’ observe the mode, and be in fashion. 
Then let not Grideline the chaste, 

Offended be for what is past. 

And hence anew my vows I plight 
To be a faithful, courteous knight. 

Grid. I’ll too my plighted vows renew. 

Since ’tis so courtly to be true. 

‘ Since conjugal passion 
* Is come into fashion, 

1 And marriage so blest on the throne is, 

‘ Like a Venus I’ll shine, 

‘ Be fond and be fine, 

1 And Sir Trusty shall be my Adonis. 

Sir Tr. ‘ And Sir Trusty shall be thy Adonis.* 

The King and Queen, advancing. 

King. Who to forbidden joys would rove. 

That knows the sweets of virtuous love ? 
Hymen, thou source of chaste delights* 
Cheerful days, and blissful nights. 



Act III.] 


ROSAMOND. 


109 


Thou dost untainted joys dispense, 

And pleasure join with innocence : 

Thy raptures last, and are sincere 
From future grief and present fear. 

Both . ‘ Who to forbidden joys would rove, 

* That knows the sweets of virtuous love ? 






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A COMEDY. 









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PREFACE, 


HAVING recommended this play to the 
town, and delivered the copy of it to the 
bookseller, I think myself obliged to give 
some account of it. 

It had been some years in the hands of 
the author, and falling under my perusal, I 
thought so well of it, that I persuaded him 
to make some additions and alterations to it, 
and let it appear upon the stage. 1 own I 
was very highly pleased with it, and liked 
it the better, for the want of those studied 
similies and repartees which we who have 
writ before him have thrown into our plays, 
to indulge and gain upon a false taste that 
has prevailed for many years in the British 
Theatre. I believe the author would have 
condescended to fall into this way a little 
more than he has, had he before the writing 
of it been often present at theatrical repre¬ 
sentations. 1 was confirmed in my thoughts 
of the play, by the opinion of better judges 
to whom it was communicated, who observed 
that the scenes were drawn after Moliere’s 
manner, and that an easy and natural vein of 
humour ran through the whole. 

I do not question but the reader will dis¬ 
cover this, and see many beauties that escap- 


PREFACE. 


ed the audience; the touches being too deli¬ 
cate for every taste in a popular assembly. 
My brother sharers were of opinion at the 
first reading of it, that it was like a picture 
in which the strokes were not strong enough 
to appear at a distance. As it is not in the 
common way of writing, the approbation 
was at first doubtful, but has risen every 
time it has been acted, and has given an 
opportunity in several of its parts for as just 
and good action as ever 1 saw on the stage. 

The reader will consider that 1 speak here, 
not as the author, but as the patentee. Which 
is, perhaps, the reason why I am not diffuse 
in the praise of the play, lest 1 should seem 
like a man who cries up his own wares only 
to draw in customers. 

RICHARD STEELE. 


PROLOGUE 


IN this grave age, when comedies are few, 

We crave your patronage for one that's new ; 
Though ’twere poor stuff, yet bid the authour fair, 
And let the scarceness recommend the ware. 

Tong have your ears been fill’d with tragick parts. 
Blood and blank verse have harden’d all your hearts 
If e’er you smile, ’tis at some party strokes, 

Round heads and wooden shoes are standing jokes : 
The same conceit gives claps and hisses birth, 
You’re grown such politicians in your mirth ! 

For once we try (though ’tis, I own, unsafe,) 

To please you all, and make both parties laugh. 

Our authour, anxious for his fame to night. 

And bashful in his first attempt to write, 

Lies cautiously obscure and unreveal’d, * 

Like ancient actors in a mask conceal’d. 

Censure, when no man knows who writes the play. 
Were much good malice merely thrown away. 

The mighty criticks willl not blast, for shame, 

A raw young thing, who dares not tell his name ; 
Good-natur’d judges will th’ unknown defend, 

And fear to blame, lest they should hurt a friend : 
Each wit may praise it, for his own dear sake, 

And hint he writ it, if the thing should take. 

But if you’re rough, and use him like a dog. 

Depend upon it-he’ll remain incog. 

If you should hiss, he swears he’ll hiss as high. 

And, like a culprit, join the hue-and-cry. 

If cruel men are still averse to spare 
These scenes, they fly for refuge to the fair. 

Though with a ghost our comedy be heighten’d, 
Ladies, upon my word, you shaVt be frighten’d 5 


PROLOGUE. 


O, ’tis a ghost that scorns to be uncivil ; 

A well-spread, lusty, jointure-hunting devil ; 

An amorous ghost, that’s faithful, fond, and true. 

Made up of* flesh and blood-as much as you* 

Then every evening come in flocks, undaunted, 

We never think this house is too much haunted. 


























DRAMATIS PERSONAL 

MEN. 

Sir George Trueman, 

Tinsel, 

Fan to me, the Drummer, 

Vellum, Sir George's Steward, 

Butler, 

Coachman, 

Gardener. 


WOMEN* 

Lady Trueman, 
Abigail. 


THE 


DRUMMER, 

OR THE 

HAUNTED HOUSE. 

" “SS K WUCS*— 

ACT I. SCENE I, 

A GREAT HALL. 

Enter the Butler, Coachman, and Gardener. 

But. THERE came another coach to town last 
night, that brought a gentleman to inquire about this 
strange noise, we hear in the house. This spirit will 

bring a power of custom to the George-If so be he 

continues his pranks, I design to sell a pot of ale, and 
set up the sign of the drum. 

Coach. I’ll give madam warning that’s flat—I’ve 
always lived in sober families. I’ll not disparage myself 
to be a servant in a house that is haunted. 

Gard. I’ll e’en marry Nell, and rent a bit of ground 
of my own, if both of you leave madam ; not but that 
madam’s a very good woman—If Mrs. Abigal did not 
spoil her-come, here’s her health. 

But. It’s a very hard thing to be a butler in a house 
that is disturb’d. He made such a racket in the cellar 
last night, that I’m afraid he’ll sour all the beer in my 
barrels. 

Coach. Why then, John, we ought to take it oflF as 
faft as we can ; here’s to you—he rattled so loud under 
the tiles last night, that I verily thought the house 
would have fallen over our heads. I durst not' go up 
into the cock loft this morning, if I had not got one of 
the maids to go along with me. 



ISO 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act I. 


Gard . I thought I heard him in one of my bed post* 
—I marvel, John, how he gets into the house when all 
the gates are shut. 

But. Why look ye, Peter, your spirit will creep you 
into an auger-hole : he’ll whisk you through a key-hole, 
without so much as jostling against one of the wards. 

Coach. Poor madam is mainly frighted, that’s cer¬ 
tain, and verily believes ’tis.my master that was killed in 
the last campaign. 

But . Out of all manner of question, Robin, ’tis Sir 
George. Mrs. Abigail is of opinion it can be none but 
his honour ; he always loved the wars, and you know 
was mightily pleased from a child with the mu sick of a 
drum. 

Gard. I wonder his body was never found after the 
battle. 

But. Found ! Why, you fool, is not his body here 
about the house ? Dost thou think he can beat his drum 
without hands and arms ? 

Coach. ’Tis master as sure as I stand here alive, and 
I verily believe I saw him last night in the town close. 

Gard. Ay ! how did he appear ? 

Coach Like a white horse. 

But . Pho, Robin, I tell ye he has never appeared yet 
but in the shape of the sound of a drum. 

Coach This makes one almost afraid of one’s own 
shadow. As I was walking from the stable t’other 
night without my lanthorn, I fell across a beam, that lay 

in my way, and faith, my heart was in my mouth-1 

thought I had stumbled over a spirit. 

But. Thou might’st as well have stumbled over a 
straw ; why, a spirit is such a little little thing, that I 
have heard a man, who was a great scholar, say, that 
he’ll dance a Lancashire hornpipe upon the point of a 
needle—As I sat in the pantry last night counting my 
spoons, the candle methought burnt blue, and the spay’d 
bitch look’d as if she saw something. 

Coach. Ay, poor cur, she’s almost frightened out of 
her wits. 

Gard. Ay, I warrant ye, she hears him many a time 
and often, when we don’t. 


Act I.] THE DRUMMER. 121 

But. My lady must have him laid, thaps certain, 
whatever it costs her. 

Gard. I fancy when one goes to market, one might 
hear of somebody that can make a spell. 

Coach . Why may not the parson of our parish lay 
him ? 

But. No, no, no, our parson cannot lay him. 

Coach . Why not he as well as another man ? 

But. Why, ye fool, he is not qualified—he has not 
taken the oaths. 

Gard. Why d’ye think John, that the spirit would 
take the law of him—faith, I could tell you one way to 
drive him off. 

Coach. How’s that ? 

Gard. I’ll tell you immediately [ drinks ]—I fancy 
Mrs. Abigail might scold him out of the house. 

Coach. Ay, she has a tongue that would drown his 
drum if any thing could. 

But. Pugh, this is all froth ! you understand nothing 
of the matter—the next time it makes a noise. I’ll tell 
you what ought to be done—I would have the steward 
speak Latin to it. 

Coach. Ay, that would do, if the steward had but 
courage. 

Gard. There you have it—he’s a fearful man. If 
I had as much learning as he, and I met the ghost, I’d 
tell him his own ! but, alack, what can one of us poor 
men do with a spirit, that can neither write nor read . ? 

But. Thou art always cracking and boasting, Peter : 
thou dost not know what mischief it might do thee, if 
such a silly dog as thee should offer to speak to it. For 
aught I know, he might flee thee alive, and make parch¬ 
ment of thy skin to cover his drum with. 

Gard. A fiddle-stick ! tell not me—I fear nothing ; 
not I! I never did harm in my life $ I never committed 
murder. 

But. I verily believe thee ; keep thy temper, Peter; 
after supper we’ll drink each of us a double mug, and 
then let come what will. 

Gard. Why that’s well said, John, an honest man 
that is not quite sober, has nothing to fear——Here’s 


THE DRUMMER. 


122 


[Act I. 


to ye—why how if he should corr.e this minute, here 
would I stand-Ha ! what noise is that! 

But. and Coach. Ha ! where! 

Card. The devil ! the devil! Oh no, His Mrs. Abi¬ 
gail ! 

But. Ay, faith ! His she ; His Mrs. Abigail! a good 
mistake ! His Mrs. Abigail. 

Enter Abigail. 

Abig. Here are your drunken sots for you ! is this a 
time to be a guzzling, when gentry are come to the 
house ! why don’t you lay your cloth ? How came you 
out of the stables ? Why are not you at work in your 
garden ? 

Garcl. Why, yonder’s the fine Londoner and madam 
fetching a walk together, and methought they looked 
as if they should say they had rather have my room 
than my company. 

But. And so forsooth being all three met together, 
we are doing our endeavours to drink this same drum¬ 
mer out of our heads. 

Gard. For you must know, Mrs. Abigail, we are all 
of opinion that one can’t be a match for him, unless one 
be as drunk as a drum. 

Coach. I am resolved to give madam warning to hire 
herself another coachman : for I came to serve my mas¬ 
ter, d’ye see, while he was alive, but do suppose that he 
has no farther occasion for a coach, now he walks. 

But. Truly, Mrs. Abigail, I must needs say, that 
this same spirit is a very odd sort of a body, after all, to 
fright madam and his old servants at this rate. 

Gard. And truly, Mrs. Abigail, I must needs say, I 
served my master contentedly, while he was living ; but 
I will serve no man living, (that is, no man that is not 
living) without double wages. 

Abig. Ay, His such cowards as you that go about 
with idle stories to disgrace the house, and bring so 
many strangers about it ; you first frighten yourselves, 
and then your neighbours. 

Gard. Frightened ! I scorn your words. Frighten¬ 
ed quoth-a ! 


Act I.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


123 


Abig. What you sot ! are you grown pot-valiant ? 

Gard. Frightened with a drum ! that’s a good one \ 
’twill do us no harm, I’ll answer for it. It will bring 
no bloodshed along with it, take my word. It sounds 
as like a train band drum as ever I heard in my life. 

But. Pr’ythee, Peter, don’t be so presumptuous. 

Abig. Well, these drunken rogues take it as I could 
wish. [Aside. 

Gard. I scorn to be frightened, now I’m in for’t! if 
old dub-a-dub should come into the room, I would take 
him- 

But. Pr’ythee hold thy tongue. 

Gard. I would take him- 

[The drum beats , the Gardener 
endeavours to get off, and falls . 

But. and Coach. Speak to it, Mrs. Abigail. 

Gard. Spare my life, and take all I have. 

Coach . Make off, make off, good butler, and let us 
go hide ourselves in the cellar. [They all run off. 

Abigail, sola. 

Abtg. So, now the coast is clear, I may venture to 
call out my drummer—but first let me shut the door, 
lest we be surprised. Mr. Fantome ! Mr. Fantome ! 
[He beats. ] Nay, nay, pray come out, the enemy’s fled 
—I must speak with you immediately—don’t stay to 
beat a parley. 

[The bach scene opens and discovers 
Fantome , with a drum. 

Fant. Dear Mrs. Nabby, I have overheard all that 
has been said, and find thou hast managed this thing 
so well, that I could take thee in my arms, and kiss thee 
—if my drum did not stand in my way. 

Abig. Well, O’ my conscience, you are the merriest 
ghost ! and the very picture of Sir George Trueman. 

Fant. There you flatter me, Mrs. Abigail: Sir 
George had that freshness in his looks, that we men of 
the town cannot come up to. 

Abig. Oh ! death may have altered you, you know— 
besides, you must consider, you lost a great deal of 
blood in the battle. 



I2i 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act I. 

Fan/. Ay, tliat’s right ; let me >ook never so pale, 
this cut across my forehead will keep me in countenance. 

Abig. ’Tis just such a one as my master received 
from a cursed French trooper, as my lady’s letter inform¬ 
ed her. 

Fant. It happens luckily that this suit of clothes of 
Sir George’s fits me so well: I think—I can’t faif'hit- 
ing the air of a man with whom I was so long acquaint¬ 
ed. 

Abig. You are the very man—I vow I almost start 
when I look upon you. 

Fant. But what good will this do me, if I must re¬ 
main invisible ? 

Abig. Pray what good did your being visible do you ? 
The fair Mr. Fantome thought no woman could with¬ 
stand him—but when you were seen by my lady in your 
proper person, after she had taken a full survey of you, 
and heard all the pretty things you could say, she very 
civilly dismissed you for the sake of this empty, noisy 
creature Tinsel. She fancies you have been gone from 
hence this fortnight. 

Fant . Why really I love thy lady so well, that though 
I had no hopes of gaining her for myself, I could not 
bear to see her given to another, especially such a wretch 
as Tinsel. 

Abig. Well, tell me truly, Mr. Fantome, have you 
not a great opinion of my fidelity to my dear lady, that 
I would not suffer her to be deluded in this manner for 
less than a thousand pound ? 

Fant. Thou art always remembering me of my pro¬ 
mise—thou shalt have it, if thou canst bring our project 
to bear; dost not know that stories of ghosts and appa¬ 
ritions generally end in a pot of money. 

Abig. Why, truly now Mr. Fantome, I should think 
myself a very bad woman, if I had done what I do, for 
a farthing less. 

Fant. Dear Abigail, how I admire thy virtue ! 

Abig. No, no, Mr. Fantome, I defy the worst of my 
enemies to say I love mischief for mischief’s sake. 

Fant. But is thy lady persuaded that I am the ghost 
of her deceased husband ? 


THE DRUMMER. 


Act I.] 


123 


A big. I endeavour to make her believe so, and tell 
her every time your drum rattles, that her husband is 
chiding her for entertaining this new lover. 

Fant. Pry’thee make use of all thy art, for I am tired 
to death with strolling round this wide old house, like 
a rat behind a wainscots . 

Abig. Did not I tell you, ’twas the purest place in 
the world for you to play your tricks in ? there’s none of 
the family that knows every hole and corner in it, be¬ 
sides myself. 

Farit. Ah, Mrs. Abigail! you have had your intrigues. 

A big. For you must know when I was a romping 
y° un g girl, I was a mighty lover of hide and seek. 

Fant. I believe, by this time, I am as well acquaint¬ 
ed with the house as yourself. 

A big. You are very much mistaken, Mr. Fantome ; 
but no matter fqp that y. here is to be your station to 
night. This is the place unknown to any one living be¬ 
sides myself, since the death of the joiner ; who, you 
must understand, being a lover of mine, contrived the 
wah.scot to move ti> and fro, in the manner that you find 
it. I design’d it for a wardrobe for my lady’s cast 
clothes. Oh ! the stomachers, stays, petticoats, com¬ 
modes, laced shoes, and good things that I have had in 
it—pray take care you don’t break the cherry-brandy 
bottle that stands up in the corner. 

Fant. Well, Mrs. Abigail, I hire your closet of you but 

for this one night-a thousand pounds you know is a 

very good rent. 

A big. Well, get you gone ; you have such a way with 
you, there’s no denying you any thing ! 

Fant. I’m a thinking how Tinsel will stare when he 
sees me come out of the wall } for I’m resolv’d to make 
my appearance to night. 

Abig. Get you in, get you in, my lady’s at the door. 

Fant. Pray take care she does not keep me up so late 
as she did last night, or depend upon it I’ll beat the 
Tattoo. 

Abig. I’m undone ! I’m undone— \_As he is going in. 
Mr. Fantome, Mr. Fantome, you have put the thousand 
pound bond into my brother’s hands. 


126 THE DRUMMER. [Act L 

Fant . Thou shalt have iti I tell thee, thou shalt have 
it. [ Fantome goes in* 

Abig . No more words—vanish, vanish. 

Enter Lady. 

Abig. [Opening the door. ] Oh, dear madam, was it 
you that made sueh a knocking ? my heart does so beat— 

I vow you have frighted me to death—I thought verily 
it had been the drummer. 

Lady . I have been showing the garden to Mr. Tinsel; 
lie’s most insufferably witty upon us about the story of 
the drum. 

Abig . Indeed, madam, he’s a very loose man 1 I’m 
afraid ’tis he that hinders my poor master from resting 
in his grave. 

Ladyi Well! an infidel is such a novelty in the coun¬ 
try, that I, am resolved to divert myself a day or two at 
least with the oddness of his conversation. 

Abig. Ah, madam ! the drum began to beat in the 
house as soon as ever this creature was admitted to visit 
you. All the while Mr. Fantome made his addresses to 
you, there was not a mouse stirring in the family more 
than used to be. 

Lady . This baggage has some design upon me, more 
than I can yet discover. [Aside:^- —Mr. Fantome was 
always thy favourite. 

Abig . Ay, and should have been yours too, by my 
consent.' Mr. Fantome was not such a slightfantastick 
thing as this is. Mr. Fantome was the best built man 
one should see in a summer’s day ! Mr. Fantome was a 
man of honour, and loved you! poor soul-! how he sighed 

when he has talked to me of my hard hearted lady-- 

Well! D had as lief as a thousand pounds you would 
marry Mr. Fantome ! 

Lady. To tell thee truly, I loved him well enough till 
I found he loved me so much. But Mr. Tinsel makes 
his court to me with so much neglect and indifference, 
and with such an agreeable sauciness—not that I say I’ll 
marry him. 


THE DRUMMER. 


127 


Act I.] 

Abig. Marry him, quoth a ! no, if you should, you’ll 
be awakened sooner than married couples generally are 
——you’ll quickly have a drum at your window. 

Lady . I’ll hide my contempt of Tinsel, for once, if it 
be but to see what this wench drives at. [Aside. 

Abig . Why, suppose your husband, after this fair 
warning he has given you, should sound you an alarm at 
midnight ; then open your curtains with a face as pale 
as my apron, and cry out with a hollow voice, what dost 
■ thou do in bed with this spindle-shanked fellow ! 

Lady. Why wilt thou needs have it to be my husband ? 
he never had any reason to be offended at me. I always 
loved him while he was living, and should prefer him 
to any man, were he so still. Mr. Tinsel is indeed very 
idle in his talk ; but I fancy, Abigail, a discreet wo¬ 
man might reform him. 

Abig. That’s a likely matter indeed 1 did you ever 
hear of a woman who had power over a man when she 
was his w r ife, that had none while she was his mistress ! 
Oh ! there’s nothing in the world improves a man in his 
complaisance like marriage ! 

Lady. He is indeed, at present, too familiar in his 
conversation. 

Abig. Familiar ! , madam> in troth, he’s downright 
rude. 

Lady. But that'you know, Abigail, shows he has no 

dissimulation in him-then he is apt to jell a little too 

much upon grave subjects. 

Abig. Grave subjects ! he jests upon the church. 

Lady. But that you know, Abigail, may be only to 

shew his wit-then it must be own’d he’s extremely 

talkative. 

Abig . Talkative d’ye call it ! he’s downright imper¬ 
tinent. 

Lady. But that you know, Abigail, is a sign he has 

been us’d to good company-then indeed he is very 

positive. 

Abig. Positive ! why he contradicts you in every 
thing you say. 

Lady. But then you know, Abigail, he has been edu« 
’ at the Inns of Court. 




1S8 THE DRUMMER. [Act L 

Abig. A blessed education indeed ! it has made him 
forget his catechism! 

Lady. You talk as if you hated him. 

Abig. You talk as if you loved him. 

Lady. Hold your tongue ! here he comes. 

Enter Tinsel. 

Tins . My dear widow ! 

Abig. My dear widow ! marry come up ! Aside. 

Lady. Let him alone, Abigail, so long as he does not 
call me my dear wife, there’s no harm done. 

Tins. I have been most ridiculously diverted since I 
left you—your servants have made a convert of my boo¬ 
by. His head is so filled with this foolish story of a 
drummer, that I expect the rogue will be afraid, here¬ 
after to go upon a message by moon light. 

Lady. Ah, Mr. Tinsel, what a loss of billet-doux 
would that be to many a fine lady ! 

Abig. Then you still believe this to be a foolish story ? 
I thought my lady had told you, that she had heard it 
herself. 

Tins. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Abig. Why, you would not persuade us out of our 
senses. 

Tins . Ha, ha, ha ! 

Abig. There’s manners for you, madam. Aside. 

Lady. Admirably rallied ! that laugh is unanswera¬ 
ble ! now I’ll be hang’d if you could forbear being wit¬ 
ty upon me, if I should tell you I heard it no longer 
ago than last night. 

Tins. Fancy ! 

Lady. But what if I should tell you my maid was 
with me ! 

Tins. Vapours ! vapours ! pray my dear widow, will 
you answer me one question ?—had you ever this noise 
of a drum in your head, all the while your husband was 
living ? 

Lady. And pray Mr. Tinsel, will you let me ask you 
another question ; do you think we can hear in the 
country, as well as you do in town ? 



THE DRUMMER. 


Act I.] 


129 


Tins. Believe me, madam, I could prescribe you a 
cure for these imaginations. 

Abig . Don’t tell my lady of imaginations, Sir, I have 
heard it myself. 

Tins. Hark thee, child—art thou not an old maid ? 

Abig. Sir, if I am, it is' my own fault. 

Tins. Whims! freaks! megrims ! indeed, Mrs. Abigail. 

Abig. Marry, Sir, by your talk, one would believe you 
thought every thing that was good is a megrim. 

Lady. Why truly, I don’t very whll understand what 
you mean by your doctrine to me in the garden just now, 
that every thing we saw was made by chance. 

Abig. A very pretty subject indeed for a lover to 
divert his mistress with. 

Lady. But I suppose that was only a taste of the 
conversation you would entertain me with after marriage. 

Tins. Oh I shall then have time to read you such lec- 
| tures of motions, atoms, and nature—that you shall learn 
j to think as freely as the best of us, and be convinced in 
less than a month, that all about us is chance work. 

Lady. You are a very complaisant person indeed ; and 
I so you would make your court to me, by persuading me 
| that I was made by chance ! 

Tins. Ha, ha, ha ! well said my dear ! Why faith, 
thou wert a very lucky hit, that’s certain. 

Lady. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, where did you learn this odd 
i way of talking ? 

Tins. Ah, widow, ’tis your country innocence makes 
you think it an odd way of talking. 

Lady. Though you give no credit to stories of appa¬ 
ritions, I hope you believe there are such things as 
spirits ! 

Tins. Simplicity ! 

Abig. I fancy you don’t believe women have souls, 
d’ye Sir ! 

Tins. Foolish enough ! 

Lady. I vow, Mr. Tinsel, I’m afraid malicious people 
will say I’m in love with an atheist. 

Tins. Oh, my dear, that’s an old fashion’d word—I’m 
a free thinker, child. 

M 




no 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act T. 


Abig. I am sure you are a free speaker. 

Lady. Really, Mr. Tinsel, considering that you are 
so fine a gentleman, Pm amazed where you got all this 
learning ! I wonder it has not spoiled your breeding. 

Tins . To. tell you the truth, I have not time to look 
into these dry matters myself, but Pm convinced by four 
or five learne'd men, whom I sometimes overhear at a 
coffeehouse I frequent, that our forefathers were a pack 
of asses, that the world has been in an errour for some 
thousands of years, and that all the people upon earth, 
excepting those two or three worthy gentlemen, are 
imposed upon, cheated,-bubbled, abused, bamboozled— 

Abig. Madam, how can you ; hear such a profligate ? 
he talks like the London prodigal. 

Lady. Why really I’m a thinking, if there be no such 
things as spirits, a woman has no occasion,, for marrying 
-she need not be .afraid to lie by herself. 

Tins. Ah ! my dear ! are husbands good for nothing 
but to frighten away spirits ? dost thou think I could 
not instruct thee in several other comforts of matrimony ? 

Lady. Ah ! but yon are a man of so much knowl¬ 
edge that you would always be laughing at my igno¬ 
rance—you learned men are so apt to despise one ! 

Tins. No, child ! I’d teach thee my principles ; thou 
should’st be as wise as I. am—in a week’s time. 

Lady. Do you, think your principles would make a 
woman the better wife ? 

Tins. Pry* thee, widow, don’t be queer. 

Lady '. I love a gay temper, but I would not have you 
rally-things that are serious. 

'Tins. Well enough, faith ! where’s the jest of rallying 
any thing else ! 

Abig. Ah, madam, did you ever hear Mr. Fantome 
talk at this rate. ? Aside. 

Tins. But where’s this ghost ! the son of a whore of 
a drummer ? I’d fain hear him, methinks. 

Abig. Pray, madam, don’t suffer him to give the 
ghost such ill language, especially when you have reason 
to believe it is my master. 

Tins. That’s well enough, faith, Nab ; dost thou 
think thy master is so unreasonable, as to continue his 



Act I.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


131 


claim to his relict after his bones are laid ? pray, widow, 
remember the words of your contract, you have fulfilled 

them to a tittle-did not you marry Sir George to the 

tune of, till death us do part P 

Lady. I must not hear Sir George’s memory treated 
in so slight a manner—this fellow must have been at 
some pains to make himself such a finished coxcomb. 

£. Aside. 

Tins. Give me but possession of your person, and I’ll 
whirl you up to town for a winter, and cn^you at once. 
Oh ! I have known many a country laan> eome to Lon¬ 
don with frightful stories of the hall housj^being haunted, 
of fairies, spirits, and witches ; that the time she had 
seen a comedy, played at an assembly, and ambled in a 
ball or two, has been so little afraid of bugbears, that 
she has ventured home in a chair at all hours of the night. 

Ahig . Hum—saucebox. [Aside. 

Tins. ’Tis the solitude of the country that creates 
these whimsies ; there was never such a thing as a ghdst 
heard of at London, except in the play house —Oh, we’d 
pass all our time in London. ’Tis the scene of pleasure 
and diversions, where there’s something to amuse you 
every hour of the day. Life’s not life in the country. 

Lady. Well then, you have an opportunity of showing* 
the sincerity of that love to me which you profess. You 
may give a proof that you have an affection to my per¬ 
son, not my jointure. 

Tins. Your jointure ! how can you think me such a 
dog ! but child, won’t your jointure be the same thing 
in London as in the country ? 

Lady. No, you’re deceiv’d ! you must know it is set¬ 
tled on me by marriage articles, on condition that I live 
in this old mansion house, and keep it up in repair. 

Tins. How ! 

Abig. That’s well put, madam. 

Tins. Why, faith, I have been looking upon this house 
and think it is the prettiest habitation I ever saw in my 
life. 

Lady. Ay, but then this cruel drum ! 

Tins. Something so venerable in it ! 





THE DRUMMER. 


[Act II. 


132 

Lady . Ay, but the drum ! 

Tins. For my part, I like this Gothick way of build¬ 
ing better than any of your new orders—it would be a 
thousand pities it should fall to ruin. 

Lady. Ay, but the drum ! 

Tins. How pleasantly we two could pass our time in 
this delicious situation. Our lives would be a continued 
dream of happiness. Come, faith, widow, let’s go up¬ 
on the leads, and take a view of the country. 

Lady. A^sbut the drum ! the drum ! 

Tins. My ^j^r, take my word for’t, tis all fancy ; be¬ 
sides, should By drum in thy very bed chamber, I should 
enly hug thee the closer. 

Clasp'd in the folds of love y Pd meet my doom. 

And act my joys , though thunder shook the room. 

ACT II. SCENE I. 

Scene opens , and discovers Vellum in his office , and a letter 
in his hand. 

Vel. THIS letter astonisheth ; may I believe my own 
eyes—or rather my spectacles— To Humphrey Vellum, 
Esq. steward to the lady Trueman. 

V?llum y 

‘ I DOUBT not but you will be glad to hear your mas- 

* ter is alive, and designs to be with you in half an hour. 

* The report of my being slain in the Netherlands, has, 

* I find, produced some disorders in my family. I am 
1 now at the George Inn ; if an old man with a grey 
e beard, in a black cloak, inquires after you, give him 
‘ admittance. He passes for a conjurer, but is really 

Tour faithfulfriend , 

G. Trueman. 

P. S . Let this be a secret, and you shall find your ac¬ 
count in it. 9 


Act II.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


133 


This amazeth me ! and yet the reasons why I should be¬ 
lieve he is still living are manifold—First, because this 
has often been the case of other military adventurer s. 

Secondly, because the news of his death was first pub¬ 
lished in Dyer’s Letter. 

Thirdly, because this letter can be written by none 
but himself-1 know his hand, and manner of spelling. 

Fourthly,- 

Enter Butler. 

But. Sir, here’s a strange old gentleman that asks for 
you ; he says he’s a conjurer, but he looks very suspi¬ 
cious ; I wish he ben’t a Jesuit. 

Vel. Admit him immediately. 

But. I wish he ben’t a Jesuit; but he says he’s no¬ 
thing but a conjurer. 

Vel. He says right-he is no more than a conjurer. 

Bring him in, and withdraw. [ Exit Butler. 

And fourthly, as I was saying, because- 

Enter Butler, with Sir George. 

But. Sir, here is the conjurer-what a devilish 

long beard, he has ! I warrant it has been growing these 
hundred years. [Aside. Exit. 

Sir Geo. Dear Vellum, you have received my letter ; 
but before we proceed, lock the door. 

Vel. It is his voice. [Shuts the door. 

Sir Geo. In the next place help me off with this cum¬ 
bersome cloak. 

Vel. It is his shape. 

Sir Geo. So, now lay my beard upon the table. 

Vel. [ After having looked on Sir George through his 
spectacles ] It is his face, every lineament ! 

Sir Geo . Well, now I have put off the conjurer and 
the old man, I can talk to thee more at my ease. 

Vel. Believe me, my good master, I am as much re¬ 
joiced to see you alive, as 1 was upon the day you were 
born. Your name was in all the newspapers, in the list 
of those that were slain. 

Sir Geo. We have not time to be particular. I shall 
only tell thee in general, that I was taken prisoner in 

M 2 



THE DRUMMER. 


[Act II. 


134 

the battle, and was under close confinement for several 
months. Upon my release, I was resolved to surprise 
my wife with the news of my being alive. I know. 
Vellum, you are a person of so much penetration, that X 
need not use any further arguments to convince you that 
I am so. 

Vel. I am—and moreover, I question not but your 
good lady will likewise be convinced of it. Her honour 
is a discerning lady. 

Sir Geo. Pm only afraid she should be convinced of 
it to her sorrow. Is she not pleased with her imaginary 
widow-hood ? tell me truly, was she afflicted at the re¬ 
port of my death ? 

Vel. Sorely. 

Sir Geo. How long did her grief last ? 

Vel. Longer than I have known any widow's—at least 
three days. 

Sir Geo'. Three days, say’st thou ? three whole days ? 
I’m afraid thou flatterest me !-O woman ! woman ! 

Vel. Grief is twofold. 

Sir Geo . This blockhead is as methodical as ever— 
but I know he’s honest. [Aside. 

Vel. There is a real grief, and there is a methodical,/- 
gri#f ; she was drown’d in tears till such time as the. 
taylor had made her widow’s weeds—indeed they be¬ 
came her. 

Sir Geo. Became her ! and was that her comfort ? 
truly a most seasonable consolation ! 

Vel. But I must needs say she paid a due regard to 
your memory, and could not forbear weeping when she 
saw company. 

Sir Geo. That was kind indeed ! I find she griev’d 
with a deal of good breeding. But how comes this gang 
i)f lovers about her ? 

Vel. Her jointure is considerable. 

Sir Geo . How this fool torments me ! [Aside. 

Vel. Her person is amiable- 

Sir Geo. Death ! [Aside. 

Vel. But her character is unblemished. She has been 
as virtuous in your absence as a Penelope--_- 



Act II.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


135 


Sir Geo. And has had as many suitors ? 

Vel. Several have made their overtures. 

Sir Geo. Several! 

Vel, But she has rejected all. 

Sir Geo. There thou revivest me—but what meant 
this Tinsel ? are his visits acceptable ? 

Vel. He is young. 

Sir Geo. Does she listen to him ! 

Vel. He is gay. 

Sir Geo. Sure she could never entertain a thought of 
marrying such a coxcomb ! 

Vel. He is not ill made. 

Sir Geo. Are the vows and protestations that past be¬ 
tween us come to this ! I can’t bear the thought of it! 
is Tinsel the man design’d for my worthy successor ? 

Vel. You do not consider that you have been dead 
these fourteen months- 

Sir Geo. Was there ever such a dog ? Aside. 

Vel. And I have often heard her say, that she must 

never expect to find a second Sir George Trueman- 

meaning your honour. 

Sir Geo. I think she loved me ; but I must search 
into this story of the drummer before I discover my¬ 
self to her. I have put on this habit of a conjurer, in 
order to introduce myself. It must be your business to 
recommend me as a most profound person, that by my 
great knowledge in the curious arts can silence the 
drummer, and dispossess the house. 

Vel. I am going to lay my accounts before my lady, 
and I will endeavour to prevail upon her honour to admit 
the trial of your art. 

Sir Geo. I have scarce heard of any of these stories 

that did not arise from a love intrigue-amours raise 

as many ghosts as murders. 

Vel. Mrs. Abigail endeavours to persuade us, that 
’tis your honour who troubles the house. 

Sir Geo. That convinces me ’tis a cheat, for I think. 
Vellum, I may be pretty well assured it is not me. 

Vel. I am apt to think so truly. Ha-ha-ha ! 

Sir Geo. Abigail had always an ascendant over her 
lady, and if there is any trick in this matter, depend 



THE DRUMMER. 


136 


[Act II. 


upon it she is at the bottom of it. I’ll be hanged if 
this ghost be not one of Abigail’s familiars. 

Vel. Mrs. Abigail has of late been very mysterious. 

Sir Geo. I fancy, Vellum, thou could’st worm it out 
of her. I know formerly there was an amour between 
you. 

Vel. Mrs. Abigail hath her allurements, and she 
knows I have picked up a competency in your honour’s 
service. 

Sir Geo. If thou hast, all I ask of thee in return is, 
that thou would’st immediately renew thy addresses to 
her. Coax her up. Thou hast such a silver tongue. 
Vellum, as ’twill be impossible for her to withstand. 
Besides, she is so very a woman, that she’ll like thee the 
better for giving her the pleasure of telling a secret. In 
short, wheedle her out of it, and I shall act by the 
advice which thou givest me. 

Vel. Mrs. Abigail was never deaf to me, when I 
talked upon that subject. I will take an opportunity of 
addressing myself to her in the most pathetick manner. 

Sir Geo. In the mean time lock me up in your office, 

and bring me word what success you have-well, sure 

I am the first that ever was employed to lay himself. 

Vel. You act indeed a threefold part in this house ; 
you are a ghost, a conjurer, and my honoured master, 
Sir George Trueman ; he, he, he ! you will pardon me 
for being jocular. 

Sir Geo. O, Mr. Vellum, with all my heart. You 
know I love you men of wit and humour. Be as merry 
as thou pleasest, so thou dost thy business. [Mimicking 
him.~\ You will remember, Vellum, your commission is 
two-fold, first to gain admission for me to your lady, 
and secondly to get the secret out of Abigail. 

Vd. It sufficeth. [The scene shuts. 

Enter Lady, sola. 

Lady. Women who have been happy in a first mar¬ 
riage, are the most apt to venture upon a second. But 
for my part I had a husband so every way suited to my 
inclinations, that I must entirely forget him, before I 
can like another man. I have now been a widow but 


THE DRUMMER. 


137 


Act II.] 

fourteen months, and have had twice as many lovers, 
all of them professed admirers of my person, but passion¬ 
ately in love with my jointure. I think it is a revenge I 
owe my sex to make an example of this worthless tribe 
of fellows, who grow impudent, dress themselves fine, 
and fancy we are obliged to provide for them. But of 
all my captives, Mr. Tinsel is the most extraordinary in 
his kind. I hope the diversion I give myself with him 
is unblameable. I’m sure ’tis necessary to turn my 
thoughts off from the memory of that dear man, who 
has been the greatest happiness and affliction of my life. 
My heart would be a prey to melancholy, if I did not 
find these innocent methods of relieving it. But here 
comes Abigail, I must teaze the baggage, for I find she 
has taken it into her head that I am entirely at her dis¬ 
posal. 

Enter Abigail. 

Abig. Madam 1 madam ! yonder’s Mr. Tinsel has as 
good as taken possession of your house. Marry, he says, 
he must have Sir George’s apartment enlarged: for tru¬ 
ly, says he, I hate to be straitened. Nay, he was so im¬ 
pudent as so shew me the chamber where he intends to 
consummate, as he calls it. 

Lady. Well ! he’s a wild fellow. 

Abig . Indeed he’s a very sad man, madair^ 

Lady. He’s young, Abigail; ’tis a thousand pities 
he should be lost j I should be mighty glad to reform 
him. 

Abig. Reform him ! marry hang him ! 

Lcidy. Has riot he a great deal of life ! 

Abig. Ay, enough to make your heart ache. 

Lady. I dare say thou think’st him a very agreeable 
fellow. 

Abig. He thinks himself so, I’ll answer for him. 

Lady. He’s very good natured. 

Abig. He ought to be so, for he’s very silly. 

Lady. Dost thou think he loves me ? 

Abig. Mr. Fantome did, I am sure. 

Lady . With what raptures he talked 1 


133 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act H. 

Abig. Yes, but ’twas in praise of your jointure-house. 

Lady. He has kept bad company. 

Abig. They must be very bad indeed, if they were 
worse than himself. 

Lady, I have a strong fancy a good woman might 
reform him. 

Abig , It would be a fine experiment, if it should not 
succeed. 

Lady. Well Abigail, we’ll talk of that another time ; 
here comes the steward, I have no further occasion for 
you at present. [Exit Abigail . 

Enter Vellum. 

Vel. Madam, is your honour at leisure to look into 
the accounts of the last week ? they rise very high-— 
house-keeping is chargeable in a house that is haunted. 

Lady . How comes that to pass ? I hope the drum 
neither eats nor drinks ? but read your account, Vellum. 

Vel. [Putting on and off his spectacles in this scene. J A 
hogshead and a half of ale—it is not for the ghost’s 

drinking-but your honour’s servants say they must 

have something to keep up their courage against this 
strange noise. They tell me they expect a double 
quantity of malt in their small beer, so long as the 
house continues in this condition. 

Lady. At this rate they’ll take care to be frightened 
all the year round, I’ll answer for them. But go on. 

Vel. Item. Two sheep, and a—where is the ox ?— 
Oh, here I have him—and an ox—your honour must 
always have a piece of cold beef in the house for the 
entertainment of so many strangers, who come from all 
parts to hear this drum, /tern, Bread, ten peck loaves 
—they cannot eat beef without bread— Item, three bar¬ 
rels of table-beer—they must drink with their meat. 

Lady. Sure no woman in England has a steward that 
makes such ingenious comments on his works. [Aside. 

Vel. Item , To Mr. k Tinsel’s servants, five bottles of 
port wine—-it was by your honour’s order— Item, three 
bottles of sack for the use of Mrs. Abigail. 

Lady. I suppose that was by your own order. 





Act II.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


139 


Vel. We have been long friends, we are your honour’s 
ancient servants ; sack is- an innocent cordial, and gives 
her spirit to chide the servants, when they are tardy in 
their business ; he, he,, he ! pardon me for being jocular. 

Lady . Well I see you’ll come together at last. 

Vel. Item , A dozen pound of watch-lights for the use 
of the servants. 

Lady. For the use of the servants ! what, are the 
rogues afraid of sleeping in the dark ? what an unfortu¬ 
nate woman am I ! this is such a particular distress, it 
puts me to my wit’s end. Vellum, what would you ad¬ 
vise me to do ? 

Vel. Madam, your honour has two points to consider. 
Imprimis , To retrench these extravagant expenses, 

I which so many strangers bring upon you —Secondly t To 
clear the house of this invisible drummer. 

Lady. This learned division leaves me just as wise as 
I I was. But how must we bring these two points to bear ? 

Vel. I beseech your honour to give me the hearing. 

Lady. I do. But pr’ythee take pity on me, and be 
not tedious. 

Vel. I will be. concise. There is a certain person ar¬ 
rived this morning, an aged man of a venerable aspect, and 
of a long hoary beard, that reacheth down to his girdle. 
The common people call him a wizard, a white witch, 
a conjuror,..a cunning man, a necromancer, a- 

Lady. No matter for his titles. But what of all this ? 

, Vel. Give me the. hearing, good my lady.. He pre¬ 
tends to great skill in the occult sciences, and is come 
hither upon the rumour of this drum. If one may be¬ 
lieve him he knows the secret of laying ghosts, or of 
quieting houses that are haunted. 

Lady. Pho, these are idle stries to amuse the country 
people, this can do us no good. 

Vel. It can, do us no harm, my lady. 

Lady. I dare say thou dost not believe there is any 
thing in it. thyself. 

Vel. I cannot say, I do*; there is no danger however 
in the experiment. Let him try his skill ; if it should 
succeed, we are rid of the drum ; if it should not, we 




140 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act II. 


may tell the world that it has, and by that means at least 
get out of this expensive way of living : so that it must 
turn to your advantage one way or another. 

Lady. I think you argue very rightly. But where is 
the man ? I would fain see him. He must be a curiosity. 

Vel. I have already discoursed with him, and he is 
to be with me in my office, half an hour hence. He 
asks nothing for his pains, till he has done his work—no 
cure, no money. 

Lady . That circumstance, I must confess, would make 
one believe there is more in his art than one would imag¬ 
ine. Pray, Vellum, go and fetch him hither immediately. 

Vel. I am gone. He shall be forth coming forthwith. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter Butler, Coachman, and Gardener. 

But. Rare news, my lads, rare news ! 

Card. What’s the matter ! hast thou got any more 
vails for us ? 

But . No, ’tis better than that. 

Coach. Is there another stranger come to the house ? 

But. Ay, such a stranger as will make all our lives 
easy. 

Gard. What ! is he a Lord ? 

But. A Lord ! no, nothing like it.—He’s a conjurer. 

Coach. A conjurer ! what, is he come a wooing to 
my lady ? 

But . No, no, you fool, he’s come on purpose to 
lay the spirit. 

Coach. Ay, marry, that’s good news indeed; but 
where is he ? 

But. He’s locked up with the steward in his office ; 
they are laying their heads together very close. I fancy 
they are casting a figure. 

Gard. Pr’thee John, what sort of a creature is * 
conjurer ? 

But. Why lie’s made much as other men are, if it 
was not for his long grey beard. 

Coach. Look ye, Peter, it stands with reason that a 
conjuror should have a long grey beard—for did you 






Act II.] THE DRUMMER. 


141 


ever know a witch that was not an old woman ? 

Card. Why ! I remember a conjurer once at a fair, 
that to my thinking was a very smock-fac’d man, and 
yet he spewed out iifty yards of green ferret. I fancy, 

John, if thou’dst get him into the pantry and give him 
a cup of ale, he’d shew us a few tricks. Dost think 
we could not persuade him to swallow one of thy case 
knives for his diversion ? he’ll certainly bring it up again. 

But. Peter, thou art such a wiseacre ! thou dost not 
know the difference between a conjurer and a juggler. 

This man must be a very great master of his trade. His 
beard is at least half a yard long, he’s dressed in a strange 
dark cloak, as black as a coal. Your conjurer always 
goes in mourning. / 

Gard. Is he a gentleman ? had he a sword by his side ? *• 

But . No, no, he’s too grave a man for that ; a con¬ 
jurer is as grave as a judge—but he had a long white 
wand in his hand. 

Coach . You may be sure there’s a good deal of virtue 
in that wand—I fancy ’tis made out of witch-elm. 

Gard. I warrant you if the ghost appears, he’ll whisk 
ye that wand before his eyes, and strike you the drum¬ 
stick out of his hand. 

But. No : the wand, look ye, is to make a circle, 
and if he once gets the ghost in a circle, then he has 
him—let him get out again if he can. A circle, you 
must know, is a conjurer’s trap. 

Coach. But what will he do with him, when he has 
him there ? 

But . Why then he’ll overpower him with his learn¬ 
ing. W t l 

Gard. If he can once compass him, and get him in 
Lob’s pond, he’ll make nothing of him, but speak a few 
hard words to him, and perhaps bind him over to his 
good behaviour for a thousand years. 

Coach. Ay, ay, he’ll send him packing to his grave 
again, with a flea in his ear, I warrant him. 

But. No, no, I would advise madam to spare no cost. 

If the conjurer be but well paid, he’ll take pains upon 
the ghost, and lay him, look ye, in the red sea—and 
then he’s laid for ever. 

N 







H*2 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act III. 

Coach. Ay, marry that would spoil his drum for him. 

Gard. Why, John, there must be a power of spirits 

in that same red sea-1 warrant ye, they are as plenty 

as fish. 

Coach. Well, I wish after all that he may not be too 
hard for the conjurer; I’m afraid he will find a tough 
bit of work on’t. 

Gard. I wish the spirit may not carry a corner of 
the house off with him. 

But. As for that, Peter, you may be sure that the 
steward has made his bargain with the cunning man be¬ 
fore hand, that he shall stand to all costs and damages— 
but hark ! yonder’s Mrs. Abigail; we shall have her 
with us immediately, if we do not get off. 

Gard. Ay lads ! if'we could get Mrs. Abigail well 
laid too—we.should lead merry lives. 

For to a man like me that's stout and bold# 

A ghost is not so dreadful as a scold. 


ACT III. SCENE I. 

SCENE opens, and discovers Sir George in -Vellum's office* 

Sir Geo. I wonder I don’t hear of Vellum yet. But 
I know his wisdom will do nothing rashly. The fellow 
has been so used to form in business, that it has infect¬ 
ed his whole conversation. But I must not find fault 
with that punctual and exact behaviour, which has been 
of so much use ,to me ; my estate is the better for it. 

Enter Vellum. 

\Vell Vellum, I’m impatient to hear your success. 

Fel. First let me lock the door. 

Sir Geo. Will your lady admit me ? 

Vcl. If this lock is not mended soon, it will be quite 
spoiled. * 




Act III.] THE DRUMMER. 143 

Sir Geo. Pr’ythee let the lock alone at present, and 
Answer me. 

Vel. Delays in business are dangerous—I must send 
for the smith next week—and in the mean time will 
take a minute of it. 

Sir Geo. What says your lady ? 

Vel. This pen is naught and wants mending—My 
lady, did you say ? 

Sir Geo. Does she admit me ? 

Vel. I have gained admission for you as a conjurer. 

Sir Geo . That’s enough ! I’ll gain admission for my¬ 
self as a husband* Does she believe there is any thing 
in my art ? 

Vel. It is hard to know what a woman believes. 

Sir Geo. Did she ask no questions about me ! 

Vel. Sundry-she desires to talk with you herself, 

before you enter upon your business. 

Sir Geo. But when 2 

Vel. Immediately. This instant. 

Sir Geo. Pugh ! What hast thou been doing all this 

while ! why didst not tell me so ? give me my clonk- 

have you yet met with Abigail ? 

Vel. I have not yet had an opportunity of talking 
with her. But we have interchanged some languishing 
glances. 

Sir Geo. Let thee alone for that, Vellum, I have for¬ 
merly seen thee ogle her through thy spectacles. Well! 
this is a most venerable cloak. After the business of 
this day is over, I’ll make thee a present of it. ’Twill 
become thee mightily v 

Vel. He, he, he ! would you make a conjurer of your 
steward ? 

Sir Geo. Pr’ythee don’t be jocular, I’m in haste. 
Help me on with my beard. 

Vel. And what will your honour do with your cast 
beard ? 

Sir Geo. Why, faith, thy gravity wants only such a 
beard to it ; if thou wouldst wear it with the cloak, 
thou wouldst make a most complete heathen philoso¬ 
pher. But where’s my wand ? 


THE DRUMMER. [Act III. 


114 

Vel. A fine taper stick ! it is well chosen. I will 
keep this till you are sheriff of the county. It is not my 
custom to let any thing be lost. 

Sir Geo. Come, Vellum, lead the way. You must 
iatroduce me to your lady. Thou’rt the fittest fellow 
in the world to be a master of the ceremonies to a con¬ 
jurer. [ Exeunt . 

Enter Abigail, crossing- the stage , Tinsel following . 

Tins. Nabby, Nabby, whither so fast, child ! 

Abig. Keep your hands to yourself. I’m going to 
call the steward to my lady. 

Tins. What ? goodman Twofold ? I met him walking 
with a strange old fellow yonder. I suppose he belongs 
to the family too. He looks very antique. He must 
be some of the furniture of this old mansion house. 

Abig. What does the man mean ? don’t think to palm 
me, as you do my lady.' 

Tins. Pr’ythee, Nabby, tell me one thing ; what’s the 
reason thou art my enemy ? 

Abig. Marry, because I’m a friend to my lady. 

Tins. Dost thou see any thing about me thou dost 
not like ? come hither, hussy, give me a kiss ; don’t be 
ill-natured. 

Abig. Sir, I know how to be civil.— \_Kisses her.~\ —* 
This rogue will carry off my lady, if I don’t take care. 

\_aside. 

Tins. Thy lips are as soft as velvet, Abigail; I must 
get thee a husband. 

Abig. Ay, now you don’t speak idly, I can talk to 

you. 

Tins. I have one in my eye for thee. Dost thou love 
a young lusty son of a whore ? 

Abig. Lord, how you talk ! 

Tins. This is a thundering dog. 

Abig. What is he ! 

Tins. A private gentleman. 

Abig. Ay, where does he live ? 

Tins. In the horse guards-but he has one fault I 

must tell thee of. If thou canst bear with that he’s a 
man for thy purpose. 


THE DRUMMER. 


US 


Act III.] 

Abig. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, what may that be ? 

Tins. He’s but five and twenty years old. 

Abig. ’Tis no matter for his age, if he has been well 
educated. 

Tins. No man better, child ; he’ll tie a wig, toss a 
die, make a pass, and swear with such a grace, as would 
make thy heart leap to hear him. 

Abig . Half these accomplishments will do, provided 
he has an estate—pray what has he ? 

Tins. Not a farthing. 

Abig. Pox on him, what do I give him the hearing 
^ or * [ Aside '. 

Tins. But as for that, I would make it up to him. 

Abig. How ? 

Tins. Why look ye, child, as soon as I have married 
thy lady, I design to discard this old prig of a steward, 
and to put this honest gentlemen, I am speaking of, in¬ 
to his place. 

Abig. This fellow’s a fool—I’ll have no more to say 
to him.— [Aside.] —Hark 1 my lady’s a coming ! 

Tins. Depend upon it, Nab, I’ll remember my prom¬ 
ise. 

Abig. Ay, and so will I too—to your cost. 

[ Aside. Exit.'] 

Tins. My dear is purely fitted up with a maid-but 

I shall rid the house of her. 

Enter Laoy. 

Lady. Oh, Mr. Tinsel, I am glad to meet you here. 

I am going to give you an entertainment, that won’t be 
disagreeable to a man of wit and pleasure, of the town— 
There may be something diverting in a conversation be¬ 
tween a conjurer and this conceited ass. [Aside. 

Tins. She loves me to distraction, I see that. [Aside. 
—Pr’ythee, widow, explain thyself. 

Lady. You must know here is a strange sort of a 
man come to town, who undertakes to free the house from 
this disturbance. The steward believes him a conjurer. 

Tins. Aye; thy steward is a deep one. 

Lady. He is to be here immediately. It j* 6 indeed an 
odd figure of a man. 

N2 




146 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act III. 

Tins. Oh ! I warrant you, he has studied the black 
art ! ha, ha, ha ! is he not an Oxford scholar ? widow, 
thy house is the most extraordinarily inhabited of any 

widow’s this day in Christendom.-1 think thy four 

chief domesticks are—a withered Abigail—a superanua- 
ted steward—a ghost—and a conjurer. 

Lady. [ Mimicking Tinsel.'] And you’d have it in¬ 
habited by a fifth, who is a more extraordinary person 
than any of all these four. 

Tins. It’s a sure sign a woman loves you, when she 
imitates your manner; [aside.] —Thou’rt very smart, 
my dear. But see ! smoke the doctor. 

Enter Vellum and Sir George in his conjurer's habit . 

Vel. I will introduce this profound person to your 
ladyship, and then leave him with you—Sir, this is her 
honour. 

Sir Gea. I know it well. [Exit Vellum . 

[aside, walking in a musing posture.] That dear woman ! 
the sight of her unmans me ; I could weep for tender¬ 
ness, did not I, at the same time, feel an indignation 
rise in me, to see that wretch with her : and yet I can¬ 
not but smile to see her in the company of her first and 
second husband at the same time. 

Lady . Mr. Tinsel, do you speak to him ; you are used 
to the company of men of learning. 

Tins. Old gentleman, thou dost not look like an in¬ 
habitant of this world ; I suppose thou art lately come 
down from the stars. Pray what news is stirring in the 
zodiack ? 

Sir Geo. News that ought to make the heart of a 
coward tremble. Mars is now entering into the first 
house, and will shortly appear in all his domal dignities. 

Tins. Mars ? pr’ythee, father grey beard, explain thyself. 

Sir Geo. The entrance of Mars into his house, por¬ 
tends the entrance of a master into this family—and that 
soon. 

Tins. D’ye hear that, widow ? the stars have cut me 
©ut for thy husband. This house is to have a master, 
and that soon—hark thee, old Gadbury, is not Mars.very 
like a young fellow called Tom Tinsel ? 


Act III.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


147 


Sir Geo. Not so much as Venus is like this lady. 

Tins. A word in your ear, doctor ; these two planets 
will be in conjunction bye and bye ; I can tell you that. 

Sir Geo. [aside, •walking disturbed. ] Curse on this 
impertinent fop ! I shall scarce forbear discovering my¬ 
self-madam, I am told that your house is visited with 

strange noises. 

Lady. And I am told that you can quiet them, I must 
confess I had a curiosity to see the person I had heard 
so much of ; and, indeed, your aspect shows that you 
have had much experience in the world. You must be 
a very aged man. 

Sir Geo. My aspect deceives you ; what do you think 
is my real age ? 

Tins. I should guess thee within three years of Me¬ 
thuselah. Pr’ythee tell me, wast not thou born before 
the flood ? 

Lady. Truly I should guess you to be in your second 
or third century. 1 warrant you, you have great grand¬ 
children with beards of a foot long. 

Sir Geo. Ha, ha, ha ! if there be truth in man, I was 
but five and thirty last August. O ! the study of the 
occult sciences makes a man’s beard grow faster than you 
would imagine. 

Lady. What an escape you have had, Mr. Tinsel, that 
you were not bred a scholar ! 

Tins. And so I fancy, doctor, thou thinkest me an 
illiterate fellow, because I have a smooth chin ? 

Sir Geo. Hark ye, Sir, a word in your ear. You are 
a coxcomb by all the rules of physiognomy : but let that 
be a secret between you and me. [aside to Tinsel. 

Lady. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, what is it the doctor whis¬ 
pers ? 

Tins. Only a compliment, child, upon two or three 
of my features. It does not become me to repeat it. 

Lady. Pray, doctor, examine this gentleman’s face, 
and tell me his fortune. 

Sir Geo. If I may believe the lines of his face, he 
likes it better than I do, or-than you do, fair lady. 

Tins. Widow, I hope now thou’rtconvincedhe’s a cheat. 




U8 THE DRUMMER. [Act III. 

Lady. For my part, I believe he’s a witch - -go 

on, doctor. 

Sir Geo. He will be crossed in love ; and that soon. 

Tins. Pr’ythee, doctor, tell us the truth. Dost not 
thou live in Moor-fields ? 

Sir Geo. Take my word for it, thou shalt never live 
in my lady Trueman’s mansion house. 

Tins. Pray, old gentleman, hast thou never been pluck¬ 
ed by the beard when thou wert saucy ? 

Lady. Nay, Mr. Tinsel, you are angry ! do you 
think I would marry a man that dares not have his for¬ 
tune told ? 

Sir Geo. Let him be angry-1 matter not-he 

is but short lived. He will soon die of- 

Tins. Come, come, speak out, old Hocus, he, he, he 1 
this fellow makes me burst with laughing. 

[j Forces a laugh. 

Sir Geo. He will soon die of a fright-or of the— 

let me see your nose-ay-’tis so ! 

Tins. You son of a whore 1 I’ll run you through the 
body. I never yet made the sun shine through a con¬ 
jurer. 

Lady . Oh, fy, Mr. Tinsel ‘ you will not kill an old 
man ! 

Tins. An old man! the dog says he’s but five and 
thirty. 

Lady. Oh, fy, Mr. Tinsel, I did not think you could 
have been so passionate ; I hate a passionate man. Put 
up your sword, or I must never see you again. 

Tins. Ha, ha, ha l I was but in jest, my dear. I had 
a mind to have made an experiment upon the doctor’s 
body. I would but have drilled a little eye-let hole in it, 
and have seen whether he had art enough to close it up 
again. 

Sir Geo. Courage is but ill shown before a lady. But 
know, if ever I meet thee again, thou shalt find this arm 
can wield other weapons besides this wand. 

Tins. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Lady. Well, learned Sir, you are to give a proof of 
your art, not of your courage. Or if you will show 






Act III.] THE DRUMMER. 


149 
■for that is 


your courage, let it be at nine o’clock- 
the time the noise is generally heard. 

Tins. And look ye, old gentleman, if thou dost not 
do thy business well, I can tell thee, by the little skill I 
have, that thou wilt be tossed in a blanket before ten. 
W e’ll do our endeavour to send thee back to the stars 
again. 

Sir Geo. I’ll go and prepare myself for the ceremo¬ 
nies-and lady, as you expect they should succeed to 

your wishes, treat that fellow with the contempt he de¬ 
serves. [Exit Sir George. 

Tins . The sauciest dog I ever talked with in my whole 
life ! 

Lady. Methinks he’s a diverting fellow ; one may see 
he’s no fool. 

Tins. No fool! ay, but thou dost not take him for a 
conjurer. 

Lady. Truly I don’t know what to take him for ; I 
am resolved to employ him, however. When a sickness 
is desperate, we often try remedies that we have no 
great faith in. 

Enter Abigail. 

Alig. Madam, the tea is ready in the parlour, as you 
ordered. 

Lady. Come, Mr. Tinsel, we may there talk of this 
subject more at leisure. [Exeunt Lady and Tinsel . 

Abigail, sola. 

Sure never any lady had such servants as mine has! 

* well, if I get this thousand pounds, I hope to have some 
of my own. Let me see : I’ll have a pretty tight girl 
—just such as I was ten years ago, (I’m afraid I may- 

say twenty) she shall dress me and flatter me-for 

I will be flattered, that’s pos ! my lady’s cast suits will 
serve her, after I have given them the wearing. Besides, 
when I am worth a thousand pounds, I shall certainly 
carry off the steward-madam Vellum-how pret¬ 

tily that will sound! here, bring out madam Vellum’s 
chaise-nay, I do not know but it may be a chariot 






150 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act Ilf. 


.-it will break the attorney’s wife’s heart-for I 

shall take place of every body in the parish, but my 
lady. If I have a son, he shall be called Fantome. But 
see, Mr. Vellum, as I could wish. I know his humour* 
and will do my utmost to gain his heart. 

Enter Vellum, •with a pint of sack. 

Vel. Mrs. Abigail, don’t I break in upon you unsea¬ 
sonably ? 

Abig. Oh, no, Mr. Vellum, your visits are always 
seasonable. 

VeL I have brought with me a taste of fresh Canary, 
which I think is delicious. 

Ahig. Pray set it down—I have a dram glass just by—- 

[.Brings in a Rummer* 
I’ll pledge you ; my lady’s good health. 

VeL And your own with it - — —sweet Mrs. Abigail. 

Ahig. Pray, good Mr. Vellum, buy me a little parcel 

of this sack, and put it under the article of tea-1 

would not have my name appear to it. 

VeL Mrs. Abigail, your name seldom appears in my 
bills-and-yet if you will allow me a merry ex¬ 
pression-you have been always in my books, Mrs. 

Abigail, ha, ha, ha ! 

Ahig. Ha, ha, ha ! Mr. Vellum, you are such a dry 
jesting man. 

Vel. Why truly, Mrs. Abigail, I have been looking 

over my papers-and I find you have been a long 

time my debtor. 

Ahig. Your debtor for what, Mr. Vellum ? 

Vel. For my heart, Mrs. Abigail, and our account! 
will not be ballanced between us, till I have yours in 
exchange for it, ha, ha, ha ! 

Ahig. Ha, ha, ha ! you are the most gallant dun, Mr. 
Vellum. 

Vel. But I am not used to be paid by words only, Mrs. 
Abigail; when will you be out of my debt ? 

Ahig. Oh, Mr. Vellum, you make one blush—my 
humble service to you. 

Vel. I must answer you, Mrs. Abigail, in the coun¬ 
try phrase— Tour love is sufficient. Ha, ha, ha ! 





THE DRUMMER. 


Act III.] 


151 


Abig. Ha, ha, ha ! Well, I must own, I love a mer¬ 
ry man ! 

Vel. Let me see, how long is it, Mrs. Abigail, since 
I first broke my mind to you—it was, I think, XJndeci - 

mo Gulielmi ,-we have conversed together these 

fifteen years—and yet, Mrs. Abigail, I must drink to 
our better acquaintance. He, he, he !—Mrs. Abigail, 
you know I am naturally jocose. 

Alig. Ah, you men love to make sport with us silly 
creatures. 

Vel. Mrs. Abigail, I have a trifle about me, which I 
would willingly make you a present of. It is indeed 
but a little toy. 

A big. You are always exceedingly obliging. 

V ?/. It is but a little toy-——scarce worth your ac¬ 
ceptance. 

Abig. Pray don’t keep me in suspense; what is it, 
Mr. Vellum ? 

Vel. A silver thimble. 

Abig. I always said Mr. Vellum was a generous lover. 

Vel. But I must put it on myself, Mrs. Abigail,— 
you have the prettiest tip .of a finger.—I must take the 
freedom to salute it. 

Abig. Oh fy! you make me ashamed, Mr. Vellum! 
how can you do so ! I protest I am in such a confusion— 

[_A feigned struggle. 

Vel. This finger is not the finger of idleness ; it bears 
the honourable scars of the needle—but why are you so 
cruel as not to pare your nails ? 

Abig. Oh, I vow you press it so hard ! pray give me 
my finger again. 

Vel. This middle finger, Mrs. Abigail, has a pretty 
neighbour—wedding-ring would become it mightily 
—he, he, he ! 

Abig. You’re so full of your jokes. Ay, but where 
must I find one for it ? 

Vel. I design this thimble only as the forerunner of 
it. They will set off each other, and are—indeed a two¬ 
fold emblem. The first will put you in mind of being 
a good house wife, and the other of being a good wife. 
Ha, ha, ha! 







152 


[Act III. 


THE DRUMMER. 

Abig. Yes, yes, I see you laugh at me. 

Vel. Indeed I am serious. 

Abig . I thought you had quite forsaken me-1 

am sure you cannot forget the many repeated vows and 
promises you formerly made me. 

Vel. I should as soon forget the multiplication table. 

Abig. I have always taken your part before my lady. 

Vel. You have so, and I have item'd it in my memory. 

Abig. For I have always looked upon your interests 
as my own. 

Vel. It is nothing but your cruelty can hinder them 
from being so. 

Abig. I must strike while the iron’s hot. [ aside .]— 
Well, Mr. Vellum, there’s no refusing you, you have 
such a bewitching tongue ! 

Vel. How ? speak that again ! 

Abig . Why then in plain English, I love you. 

Vel. I’m overjoyed! 

Abig. I must own my passion for you. 

Vel. I’m transported ! [Catches her in his arms. 

Abig. Dear charming man ! 

Vel. Thou sum total of all my happiness ! —I shall 
grow extravagant ! I can’t forbear to drink thy virtu¬ 
ous inclinations in a b.umper of sack. Your lady must 
make haste, my duck, or we shall provide a young stew¬ 
ard to the estate, before she has an heir to it.—Pr’ythee, 
my dear, does she intend to marry Mr. Tinsel ? 

Abig. Marry him, my love, no, no ! we must take 
care of that ! there w r ould be no staying in the house 
for us if she did. ' That young rake-hell would send 
all the old servants a grazing. You and I should be 
discarded before the honey-moon was at an end. 

Vel. Pr’ythee, sweet one, does not this drum put the 
thoughts of marriage out of her head ? 

Abig. This drum; my dear, if it be well managed, will 
be no less than a thousand pound in our way. 

Vel. Ay, sayest thou so, my turtle ? 

Abig. Since we are now as good as man and wife—I 
mean, almost as good as man and wife—-I ought to con¬ 
ceal nothing from you. 



Act IV.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


153 


Vel. Certainly, my dove, not from thy yoke-fellow, 
thy help-mate, thy own flesh and blood ! 

Ab'tg. Hush ! I hear Mr. Tinsel’s laugh, my lady 
and he are coming this way ; if you will take a turn 
without, I’ll tell you the whole contrivance. 

Vel. Give me your hand, chicken. 

A big. Here take it, you have my heart already. 

Vel. We shall have much issue. [Exeunt. 

—» 

ACT IV. SCENE I. 

Enter Vellum and Butler. 

Vel. John, I have certain orders to give you—and 
therefore be attentive. 

But. Attentive ! ay, let me alone for that—I suppose 
he means being sober. [Aside. 

Vel. You know I have always recommended to you 
a method in your business ; I would have your knives 
and forks, your spoons and napkins, your plate and* 
glasses, laid in a method. 

But. Ah, Mr. Vellum, you are such a sweet spoken 
man, it does one’s heart good to receive your orders. 

Vel. Method, John, makes business easy, it banishes 
all perplexity and confusion out of families. 

But. How he talks ! I could hear him all day. 

Vel. And now, John, let me know whether your 
table-linen, your side board, your cellar, and every thing 
else within your province, are properly and methodically 
disposed for an entertainment this evening. 

But. Master Vellum, they shall be ready at a quarter 
of an hour’s warning. But pray, Sir, is this entertain¬ 
ment to be made for the conjurer ? 

Vel. It is, John, for the conjurer, and yet it is not 
for the conjurer. 

But. Why, look you, master Vellum, if it is for the 
conjurer, the cook maid should have orders to get him 






154 THE DRUMMER. [Act IV. 

some dishes to his palate. Perhaps he may like a little 
brimstone in his sauce. 

Vel. This conjurer, John, is a complicated creature, 

an amphibious animal, a person of a twofold nature-- 

but he eats and drinks like other men. 

But . Marry, master Vellum, he should eat and drink 
as much as two other men, by the account you give of 
him. 

Vel. Thy conceit is not amiss, he is indeed a double 
man, ha, ha, ha ! 

But . Ha ! I understand you, he’s one of your her¬ 
maphrodites, as they call ’em. 

Vel. He is married, and he is not married—he hath 
a beard, and he hath no beard. He is old, and he is 
young. 

But. How charmingly he talks ! I fancy, master 
Vellum, you could make a riddle. The same man old 
and young ! how do you make that out, master Vellum ? 

Vel. Thou hast heard of a snake casting his skin, and 
recovering his youth. Such is this sage person. 

But. Nay, ’tis no wonder a conjurer should be like a 
serpent. 

Vel. When he has thrown aside the old conjurer’s 
slough that hangs about him, he’ll come out as fine a 
young gentleman as ever was seen in this house. 

But. Does he intend to sup in his slough ? 

Vel. That time will show. 

But. Well, I have not a head for these things. In¬ 
deed, Mr. Vellum, I have not understood one word you 
have said this half hour. 

Vel. I did not intend thou should’st—but to our 
business—let there be a table spread in the great hall. 
Let your pots and glasses be washed, and in readiness. 
Bid the cook provide a plentiful supper, and see that all 
the servants be in: their best liveries. 

But. Ay, now I understand every word you say. 
But I would rather hear you talk a little in that t’other 
way. 

Vel. I shall explain to thee what I have said, bye and 

bye--—bid Susan lay two pillows* upon your lady’s 

bed. 


THE DRUMMER. 


Act IV.] 


155 


But. Two pillows ! madam won’t sleep upon ’em 
both ! she is not a double woman too. 

Vel. She will sleep upon neither. But hark, Mrs. 
Abigail, I think I hear her chiding the cook-maid. 

But. Then I’ll away, or it will be my turn next; she, 
I am sure, speaks plain English, one may easily under¬ 
stand every word she says. [ Exit Butler. 

Vellum, solus. 

Vel. Servants are good for nothing, unless they hav^ 
an opinion of the person’s understanding who has the 
direction of them—but see, Mrs. Abigail ! she has a be¬ 
witching countenance ; I wish I may not be tempted to 
marry her in good earnest. 

Enter Abigail. 

Abig. Ha ! Mr. Vellum. 

Vel. What brings my sweet one hither ? 

Abig. I am coming to speak to my friend behind the 
wainscot. It is fit child, he should have an account of 
this conjurer, that he may not be surprised. 

Vel. That would be as much as thy thousand pound 
is worth. 

Abig. I’ll speak low—walls have ears. 

[ Pointing at the 'wainscot. 

Vel. But hark you, ducklin ! be sure you do not tell 
him that I am let into the secret. 

Abtg. That’s a good one indeed t as if I should ever 
tell what passes between you and me. 

Vel. No, no, my child, that must not be, he, he, he ! 
that must not be : he, he, he ! 

Abtg. You will always be waggish. 

Vel. Adieu, and let me hear the result of your con¬ 
ference. 

Abig. How can you leave one so soon ? I shall think 
it an age till I see you again. 

Vel. Adieu, my pretty one. 

Abig. Adieu, sweet Mr. Vellum ! 

Vel. My pretty one- [As he is going ojf. 

Abig. Dear Mr. Vellum ! 

Vel. My pretty one ! [ Exit Vdlum . 



156 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act IV. 


Abigail, sola. 

I have him.-If I can but get this thousand 

pound. \_Fantome gives three raps upon his drum behind 
the wainscot.'] Ha ! three rap3 upon the drum ! the sig¬ 
nal Mr. Fantome and I agreed upon, when he had a 
mind to speak with me. [ Fantome raps again.] Very 
well, I hear you ; come fox, come out of your hole. 

Scene opens , and Fantome comes out. 

You may leave your drum in the wardrobe, till you 
have occasion for it. 

Fant. Well, Mrs. Abigail, I want to hear what is 
a doing in the world. 

Alig. You are a very inquisitive spirit. But I must 
tell you, if you do not take care of yourself, you will 
be laid this evening. . 

Fant. I have overheard something of that matter. But 
let me alone for the doctor—I’ll engage to give a good 
account of him. I am more in pain about Tinsel. 
When a lady’s in the case, I’m more afraid of one fop 
than twenty conjurers. 

Alig. To tell you truly, he presses his attacks with 
so much impudence, that he has made more progress 
with my lady in two days, than you did in two months. 

Fant. I shall attack her in another manner, if thou 
canst but procure me another interview. There’s no¬ 
thing makes a lover so keen, as being kept up in the 
dark. 

Alig. Pray no more of your distant bows, your re¬ 
spectful compliments-really, Mr. Fantome, you’re 

only fit to make love across a tea-table. 

Fant. My dear girl, I can’t forbear hugging thee for 
thy good advice. 

Alig. Ay, now I have some hopes of you ; but why 
don’t you do so to my lady ? 

Fant. Child, I always thought your lady loved to be 
treated with respect. 

Alig. Believe me, Mr. Fantome, there is not so great 
a difference between woman and woman, as you imagine. 




Act IV.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


157 


You see Tinsel has nothing but his sauciness to recom¬ 
mend him. 

Fant. Tinsel is too great a coxcomb to be capable of 
love—and let me tell thee, Abigail, a man, who is sin¬ 
cere in his passion, makes but a very awkward profession 
of it-but I’ll mend my manners. 

Abig. Ay, or you’ll never gain a widow—come, I 
must tutor you a little ; suppose me to be my lady, and 
let me see how you’ll behave yourself. 

Fant. I’m afraid, child, we han’t time for such a 
piece of mummery. 

Abig. Oh, ’twill be quickly over, if you play your 
part well. 

Fant. Why then, dear Mrs. Ab-1 mean my lady 

Trueman. 

Abig. Ay, but you han’t saluted me. 

Fant. That’s right : faith I forgot that circumstance. 
£ Kisses her.~\ Nectar and Ambrosia ! 

Abig. That’s very well- 

Fant. How long must I be condemned to languish ! 
when shall my sufferings have an end ! my life ! my hap¬ 
piness, my all is wound up in you.- 

Abig. Well ! why don’t you squeeze my hand ? 

Fant. What, thus ! 

Abig . Thus ! ay—now throw your arm about my 
middle ; hug me closer-you are not afraid of hurt¬ 

ing me ! now pour forth a volley of rapture and non¬ 
sense, till you are out of breath. 

Fant. Transport and ecstasy ? where am I-my life, 

my bliss ! I rage, I burn, I bleed, I die! 

Abig . Go on, go on. 

Fant. Flames and darts—bear me to the gloomy 
shade, rocks and grottos—flowers, zephyrs, and purling 
streams. 

Abig. Oh, Mr. Fantome, you have a tongue would 
undo a vestal ! you were born for the ruin of our sex. 

Fant. This will do then, Abigail ? 

Abig. Ay, this is talking like a lover. Though I 
only represent my lady, I take a pleasure in hearing 
you. Well, o’ my conscience, when a man of sense 
02 









158 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act IV. 


has a little dash of the coxcomb in him, no woman can 
resist him. Go on at this rate, and the thousand pound 
is as good as in my pocket. 

Fant. I shall think it an age till I have an opportu¬ 
nity of putting this lesson in practice. 

Abig. You may do it soon, if you make good use of 
your time ; Mr. Tinsel will be here with my lady at 
eight, and at nine the conjurer is to take you in hand. 

Fant . Let me alone with them both. 

Abig. Well ! forewarned, forearmed. Get into your 
box, and I’ll endeavour to dispose every thing in your 
favour. [ Fantome goes in. Exit Abigail, 

Enter Vellum. 

Vel. Mrs. Abigail is withdrawn.-1 was in hopes to 

have heard what passed between her and her invisible 
correspondent. 

Enter Tinsel. 

Tins, Vellum ! Vellum ! 

Vel, Vellum ! we are, methinks, very familiar ; lam 
not used to be called so by any but their honours. 
[_Aside .~\—What would you, Mr. Tinsel ! 

Tins. Let me beg a favour of thee, old gentleman. 

Vel. What is that, good Sir ? 

Tins. Pr’ythee run and fetch me the rent-roll of thy 
lady’s estate. 

Vel. The rent roll ! 

Tins. The rent-roll ? ay, the rent-roll ! dost not un¬ 
derstand what that means ? 

Vel. Why ? have you any thoughts of purchasing of 
it ? 

Tins. Thou hast hit it, old boy, that is my very inten¬ 
tion. 

Vel. The purchase will be considerable. 

Tins. And for that reason I have bid thy lady very 

high-she is to have no less for it than this entire 

person of mine. 

Vel. Is your whole estate personal, Mr. Tinsel 
he, he, he ! 



Act IV.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


159 


Tins. Why, you queer old dog, you don’t pretend to 
jest, d’ye ! look ye, Vellum, if you think of being con¬ 
tinued my steward, you must learn to walk with your 
toes out. 

Vel. An insolent companion ! [aside. 

Tins. Thou’rt confounded rich I see, by that dangling 
of thy arms. 

Vel. An ungracious bird 1 [aside. 

Tins. Thou shalt lend me a couple of thousand 
pounds. 

Vel. A very profligate ! [aside. 

Tins. Look ye, Vellum, I intend to be kind to you— 
I’ll borrow some money of you. 

Vel. I cannot but smile to consider the disappoint¬ 
ment this young fellow will meet with ; I will make my¬ 
self merry with him, [aside. ]—and so, Mr. Tinsel, you 
promise you will be a very kind master to me ? [stifling 
a laugh. ] 

Tins. What will you give for a life in the house you 
live in ? 

Vel. What do you think of five hundred pounds ? 
ha, ha, ha ! 

Tinsi That’s too little. 

Vel. And yet it is more than I shall give-and I 

will offer you two reasons for it. 

Tins. Pr’ythee, what are they ? 

Vel. First, because the tenement is not in your dispo¬ 
sal ; and secondly, because it never will be in your dis¬ 
posal ? and so fare you well, good Mr. Tinsel. Ha, ha, 
ha! you will pardon me for being jocular. [Ex. Vellum. 

Tins. This rogue is as saucy as the conjurer ; I’ll be 
banged if they are not a kin. 

Enter Lady. 

Lady. Mr. Tinsel! what, all alone ? you freethinkers 
are great admirers of solitude. 

Tins. No faith, I have been talking with thy steward ; 
a very grotesque figure of a fellow, the very picture of 
one of our benchers. How can you bear his conversa* 
tion ? 




160 THE DRUMMER. [Act IV. 

Lady. I keep him for my steward, and not my com¬ 
panion. He’s a sober man. 

Tins . Yes, yes, he looks like a put-a queer old 

dog, as ever I saw in my life : we must turn him off, 
widow. He cheats thee confoundedly, I see that. 

Lady. Indeed you’re mistaken, he has always had 
the reputation of being a very honest man. 

Tins. What, I suppose he goes to church. 

Lady. Goes to church ! so do you too, I hope. 

Tins. I would for once, widow, to make sure of you. 

Lady. Ah, Mr. Tinsel, a husband who would not 
continue to go thither, would quickly forget the prom¬ 
ises he made there. 

Tins. Faith, very innocent and very ridiculous ! well 
then, I warrant thee, widow, thou wouldst not for the 
world marry a sabbath breaker ! 

Lady. Truly they generally come to a bad end. I 
remember the conjurer told you, you were short lived. 

Tins. The conjurer, ha, ha, ha ! 

Lady. Indeed you’re very witty ! 

Tins. Indeed you’re very handsome. [Kisses her hand. 

Lady. I wish the fool does not love me ! [Aside. 

Tins. Thou art the idol I adore. Here must I pay my 

devotion-pr’ythee, widow, hast thou any timber 

upon thy estate ? 

Lady. The most impudent fellow I ever met with. 

[aside. 

Tins. I take notice thou hast a great deal of old 
plate here in the house, widow. 

Lady. Mr. Tinsel, you are a very observing man. 

Tins. Thy large silver cistern wmuld make a very 
good coach ; and half a dozen salvers that I saw on the 
sideboard, might be turned into six as pretty horses, as 
any that appear in the ring. 

Lady. You have a very good fancy, Mr. Tinsel- 

what pretty transformations you could make in my 
house—but I’ll see where ’twill end. [aside. 

Tins. Then I observe, child, you have two or three 
services of gilt plate ; we’d eat always m china, my 
dear. 



Act IV.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


161 


Lady. I perceive you are an excellent manager—how 
quickly you have taken an inventory of my goods ! 

Tins. Now hark ye, widow, to show you the love 
that I have for you- 

Lady. Very w^ 1 * let me hear. 

Tins. You have an old fashioned gold caudle cup, 
with the figure of a saint upon the lid on’t. 

Lady. I have : what then ? 

Tins. Why, look ye, I’d sell the caudle cup, with the 
old saint, for as much money as they’d fetch, which I 
would convert into a diamond buckle, and make you a 
present of it. 

Lady. Oh, you are generous to an extravagance. But 
pray, Mr. Tinsel, don’t dispose of my goods before you 
are sure of my person, I find you have taken a great 
affection to my moveables. 

Tins. My dear, I love every thing that belongs to 
you. 

Lady. I see you do, Sir ; you need not make any pro- 
! testations upon that subject. 

Tins. Pho, pho, my dear, we are growing serious, 
and let me tell you, that’s the very next step to being 
dull. Come, that pretty face was never made to look 
grave with. 

Lady. Believe me, Sir, whatever you may think, mar- 
raiage is a serious sut^ect. 

Tins. For that very reason, my dear, let us get over 
it as fast as we can. 

* Lady. I should be very much in haste for a husbafid, 
if I married within fourteen months after Sir George’s 
decease. 

Tins. Pray, my dear, let me ask you a question : 
dost not thou think that Sir George is as dead at pres¬ 
ent, to all intents and purposes, as he will be a twelve 
month hence. 

^ Lady. Yes, but decency, Mr. Tinsel-— 

Tins. Or dost thou think thou’lt be more a widow 
then, than thou art now ? 

Lady. The world would say I never loved my first 
husband. 








162 


TOE DRUMMER. 


[Act IV. 

Tins. Ah, my dear, they would say you loved your 
second ; and they would own I deserved it, for I shall 
love thee most inordinately. 

Lady. But what would people think ? 

Tins. Think ! why they would think thee the mir- 
rour of widowhood-that a woman should live four¬ 

teen whole months after the decease of her spouse, with¬ 
out having engaged herself. Why, about town, we 
know many a woman of quality’s second husband seve¬ 
ral years before the death of the first. 

Lady. Ay, I know you wits have your common¬ 
place jests upon us poor widows. 

Tins. I’ll tell you a story, widow ; I know a certain 
lady, who, considering the craziness of her husband, had, 
in case of mortality, engaged herself to two young fel¬ 
lows of my acquaintance. They grew such desperate 
rivals for her while her husband was alive, that one of 
them pinked the other in a duel. But the good lady 
was no sooner a widow, but what did my dowager do ? 
why, faith, being a woman of honour, she married a 
third, to whom, it seems, she had given her first prom¬ 
ise. 

Lady. And this is a true story upon your own knowl¬ 
edge ? 

Tins . Every tittle, as I hope to be married, or never 
believe Tom Tinsel. 

Lady. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, do you call this talking like 
a wit, or like a rake ? 

Tins. Innocent enough, he, he, he ! why ! where’s' 
the difference, my dear ? 

Lady. Yes, Mr. Tinsel, the only man I ever loved in 
my life, had a great deal of the one and nothing of the 
other in him. 

Tins. Nay now you grow vapourish ; thou’lt begin 
to fancy thou hear’st the drum bye and bye. 

Lady. If you had been here last night, about this 
time, you would not have been so merry. 

Tins. About this time, sayest thou ? come, faith, for 
the humour’s sake, we’ll sit down and listen. 

Lady. I will, if you’ll promise to be serious. 


Act IV.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


163 


Tins. Serious ! never fear me, child. Ha, ha, ha ! 
dost not hear him ? 

Lady . You break your word already. Pray Mr. 
Tinself, do you laugh to show your wit or your teeth ? 

Tins. Why, both, my dear-Pm glad, however, 

that she has taken notice of my teeth, [aside.'] But 
you look serious, child ? I fancy thou hearest the drum, 
dost not ? 

Lady Don’t talk so rashly. 

Tins. Why, my dear, you could not look more fright¬ 
ed if you had Lucifer’s drum-major in your house. 

Lady . Mr. Tinsel, I must desire to see you no more 
in it, if you do not leave this idle way of talking. 

Tins. Child, I thought I had told you what is my 
opinion of spirits, as we were drinking a dish of tea but 

just now-There is no such thing, I give thee my 

my word. 

Lady. Oh, Mr. Tinsel, your authority must be of 
great weight to those that know you. 

Tins. For my part, child, I have made myself easy in 
those points. 

Lady. Sure nothing was ever like this fellow’s vanity, 
but his ignorance. [aside. 

Tins . I’ll tell thee what, now, widow-1 would en¬ 

gage by the help of a white sheet and a penny worth 
of link in a dark night, to frighten you a whole coun¬ 
try village out ofjtheir senses, and the vicar into the bar¬ 
gain. [Drum beats J] Hark ! hark ! what noise is that ! 
heaven defend us ! this is more than fancy. 

Lady. It beats more terrible than ever. 

Tins. ’Tis very dreadful ! what a dog have I been to 
speak against my conscience, only to show my parts ! 

Lady. It comes nearer and nearer. I wish you have 
not angered it by your foolish discourse. 

Tins. Indeed, Madam, 1 did not speak from my 
heart ; I hope it will do me no hurt for a little harm¬ 
less raillery. 

Lady. Harmless, d’ye call it ? it beats hard by us, as 
if it would break through the wall. 

Tins. What a devil had I to do with a white sheet ? 

[Scene opens and discovers Fantome . 



164 


[Act IV. 


THE DRUMMER. 

Tins. Mercy on us ! it appears ! 

Lady. Oh i His he ! His he himself! His Sir George ! 
His my husband ! [She faints. 

Tins. Now would I give ten thousand pounds that I 
were in town. [ Fantome advances to him , drumming . 

I beg ten thousand pardons. I’ll never talk at this rate 
any more. [ Fantome still advances , drumming . 

By my soul, Sir George, I was not in earnest, [j Falls 
on hishnees.~\ Have compassion on my youth, and con¬ 
sider I am but a coxcomb. [ Fantome points to the door. 

But see, he waves me off-ay, with all my heart- 

What a devil had I to do with a white sheet ? [He 
steals off the stage, mending his pace as the drum heats. 3 

Fant. The scoundrel is gone, and has left his mistress 
behind him. Dm mistaken if he makes love in this 
house any more. I have now only the conjurer to deal 
with. I don’t question but I shall make his reverence 
scamper as fast as the lover ; and then the day’s my 
own. But the servants are coming, I must get into my 
cupboard. [He goes in . 

Enter Abigail and servants . 

Ahig. O my poor lady ! this wicked drum has fright¬ 
ed Mr. Tinsel out of his wits, and my lady into a swoon. 
Let me bend her a little forward. She revives. Here, 
carry her into the fresh air, and she’ll recover. [They 
carry her off. ] This is a little barbarous to my lady, 
but His all for her good : and I know her so well, that 
she would not be angry with me if she knew what I 
was to get by it. And if any of her friends should 
blame me for it, hereafter, 

Pll clap my hand upon my purse , and tell 'em, 
y T < was for a thousand pound and Mr . Vellum . 


Act V.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


165 


ACT V. SCENE I. 


Enter Sir George /« /jis conjurer's habit , the Butler 

marching before him with two large candles , and the two 

servants coming after him , one bringing a little table , and 

another a chair. 

But. AN’T please your worship, Mr. Conjurer, the 
steward has given all of us orders to do whatsoever you 
shall bid us, and to pay you the same respect, as if you 
were our master. 

Sir Geo. Thou say’st well. 

Gard. An’t please your conjurership’s worship, shall 
I set the table down here ? 

Sir Geo. Here, Peter. 

Gard. Peter !-he knows my name by his learning. 

[aside. 

Coach. I have brought you, reverend Sir, the largest 
elbow chair in the house ; , tis that the steward sits in 
when he holds a court. 

Sir Geo. Place it there. 

But. Sir, wall you please to want any thing else ? 

Sir Geo. Paper, and a pen and ink. 

But. Sir, I believe we have paper that is fit for your 
purpose ! my lady’s mourning paper, that is blacked at 

the edges-would you choose to write w’ith a crow 

quill ? 

Sir Geo. There is none better. 

But. Coachman, go fetch the paper and standisli 
out of the little parlour. 

Coach. [To the Gardener.'] Peter, pr’ythee do you go 

along with me-I’m afraid-you know I went 

with you last night into the garden, when the cookmaid 
wanted a handful of parsley. 

But. Why, you don’t think I’ll stay with the conjurer 
by myself ? 

Gard. Come vre’ll all three go and fetch the pen 
and ink together. [Exeunt Servants . 

P 




166 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act V. 


Sir George, solus. 

There’s nothing, I see, makes such strong alliances as 
fear. These fellows are all entered into a confederacy 
against the ghost. There must be abundance of bus¬ 
iness done in the family at this rate. But here comes 
the triple alliance. Who could have thought these 
three rogues couldhave found each of’em an employment 
in fetching a pen and ink ! 

Enter Gardener, with a sheet of paper , Coachman 
with a standish , and Butler with a pen. 

Card. Sir, there is your paper. 

Coach. Sir, there is your standish. 

But. Sir, there is your crow-quill pen-I’m 

glad I have got rid on’t. [aside. 

Gard. He forgets that he’s to make a circle. [aside. 

~-Doctor, shall I help yo*u to a bit of chalk ? 

Sir Geo. It is no matter. 

But. Look ye, Sir, I sliow’d you the spot where 
he’s heard oftenest, if your worship can but ferret him out 
of that old wall in that next room-- 

Sir Geo. We shall try. 

Gard. That’s right, John. His worship must let 
fly all his learning at that old wall. 

But. Sir, if I was worthy to advise you, I would 
have a bottle of good October by me. Shall I set a 
cup of old stingo at your elbow ? 

. Sir Geo. I thank thee, we shall do without it. 

Gard. John, he seems a very good natured man for a 
conjurer. / 

But. I’ll take this opportunity of inquiring after a 
bit of plate I have lost. I fancy, whilst he is in my 
lady’s pay, one may hedge in a question or two into 
the bargain. Sir, Sir, may I beg a word in your ear ? 

Sir Geo. What would’st thou ? 

But. Sir, I know I need not tell you, that I lost one 
©f my silver spoons last week. 

Sir Geo. Marked with a swan’s neck — - ... 





Act V.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


167 


But. My Lady’s crest ! he knows every thing. 
[aside.] How would your worship advise me to recover 
it again. 

Sir Geo. Hum ! 

But. What must I do to come at it ? 

Sir Geo. Drink nothing but small beer for a fort¬ 
night— 

But. Small beer ! rot gut! 

Sir Geo. If thou drinkest a single drop of ale before 

fifteen days are expired-it is as much-as thy 

spoon-is worth. 

But. I shall never recover it that way ! I’ll e’en buy' 
a new one. [aside. 

Coach. D’ye mind how they whisper ? 

Gard. I’ll be hang’d if he be not asking him some¬ 
thing about Nell- 

Coach. I’ll take this opportunity of putting a ques¬ 
tion to him about poor Dobbin : I fancy he could give 
me better counsel than the farrier. 

But. [To the Gardener .] A prodigious man ! he knows 
every thing : now is the time to find out thy pick ax. 

Gard. I have nothing to give him : does not he ex¬ 
pect to have his hand crossed with silver ? 

Coach. [To Sir George.'] Sir, may a man venture to 
ask you a question ? 

Sir Geo. Ask it. 

Coach. I have a poor horse in the stable that’s be¬ 
witched— 

Sir Geo. A bay gelding. 

Coach. How could he know that i 1 - [aside. 

Sir Geo . Bought at Banbury. 

Coach. Whew—so it was o’ my conscience. [Whistles. 

Sir Geo . Six years old last Lammas. 

Coach. To a day. [Aside.] Now, Sir, I would ' 
know whether the poor beast is bewitched by Goody 
Crouch, or Goody Flye ? 

Sir Geo. Neither. 

Coach . Then it must be Goody Gurton ! for she is 
next oldest woman in the parish. 

Gard. Hast thou done, Robin ? 







168 


THE DRUMMER. 


' [Act V. 

Coach . [To the Gardener.'] He can tell thee any thing. 

Gard. [To Sir George.] Sir, I would beg to take you 
a little further out of hearing- 

Sir Geo. Speak. 

Gard. The butler and I, Mr. Doctor, were both of 
us in love at the same time with a certain person. 

Sir Geo. A woman. 

Gard. How could he know that ? [aside. 

Sir Geo. Go on. 

Gard. This woman has lately had two children at a 
birth. 

Sir Geo. Twins. 

Gard. Prodigious ! where could he hear that, [aside. 

Sir Geo. Proceed. 

Gard. Now, because I used to meet her sometimes in 
the garden, she has laid them both- 

Sir Geo. To thee. 

Gard. What a power of learning he must have ; he 
knows every thing. [aside. 

Sir Geo. Hast thou done ? 

Gard. I would desire to know whether I am really fa¬ 
ther to them both ? 

Sir Geo. Stand before me, let me survey thee round. 
[Lays Ids wand upon his head , and makes him turn 
about. 

Coach. Look yonder, John, the silly dog is turning 
about under the conjurers wand. If he has been saucy 
to him, we shall see him puffed off in a whirlwind im¬ 
mediately. 

Sir Geo . Twins, dost thou say ? [Still turning him . 

Gard. Ay ; are they both mine d’ye think ? 

Sir Geo. Own but one of them. 

Gard. Ah ! but Mrs. Abigail will have me take care 
of them both—she’s always for the butler—if my poor 
master Sir George had been alive, he would have made 
him go halves with me. 

Sir Geo. What, was Sir George a kind master ? 

Gard. Was he ! ay, my fellow servants will bear me 
witness. 

Sir Geo. Did you love Sir George ? 




Act V.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


169 


But. Every body loved him- 

Coach. There was not a dry eye in the parish at the 

news of his death- 

Gard. He was the best neighbour- 

But. The kindest husband- 

Coach. The truest friend to the poor- 

But. My good lady took on mightily ; we all though 
it would have been the death of her. 

Sir Geo. 1 protest these fellows melt me ! I think the 
time long till I am their master again, that I may be 
kind to them. [aside. 

Enter Vellum. 

Vel. Have you provided the doctor every thing he 
has occasion for l if so—you may depart. 

[Exeunt Servants. 

Sir Geo. I can as yet see no hurt in my wife's be¬ 
haviour ; but still have some certain pangs and doubts, 
that are natural to the heart of a fond man. I must 
take the advantage of my disguise to be thoroughly 
satisfied. It would neither be for her happiness, nor 
mine, to make myself known to her till 1 am zo.[aside.~\ 
Dear Vellum, I am impatient to hear some news of, my 
wife, how does she after her fright ? 

Eel. It is a saying somewhere in my Lord Coke, 
that a widow- 

• Sir Geo. I ask of my wife, and thou talkest to me of 
my Lord Coke—Pr'ythee tell me how she does, for I 
am in pain for her. 

Vel. She is pretty well recovered. Mrs. Abigail has 
put her in good heart ; and I have given her great 
i hopes from your skill. 

Sir Geo. That I think cannot fail since thou hast got 
this secret out of Abigail. But I could not have 
| thought my friend Fantome would have served me thus. 
Vel. You will still fancy you are a living man— 

Sir Geo. That he should endeavour to ensnare my wife. 
Vel. You have no right in her, after your demise : 
death extinguishes all property ,——-Quoad kanc -~-~-it is 
a maxim in the law. 

P 2 







I/O 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act V. 


Sir Geo . A pox on your learning ! well, but what is 
become of Tinsel ? 

Vel. He rushed out of the house, called for his horse, 
clapped spurs to his sides, and was out of sight in less 
time than I can—tell—ten. 

Sir Geo. This is whimsical enough ; my wife will 
have a quick succession of lovers in one day ; Fantome 
has driven out Tinsel, and I shall drive out Fantome. 

Vel. Even as one wedge driveth out another ; he, he, 
he ! you must pardon me for being jocular. 

Sir Geo. Was there ever such a provoking block¬ 
head ? but he means me well, [aside.\ Well, I must 
have satisfaction of this traitor Fantome ; and cannot 
take a more proper one, than by turning him out of my 
house, in a manner that shall throw shame upon him, 

and make him ridiculous as long as he lives-You 

must remember. Vellum, you have abundance of busi¬ 
ness upon your hands, and I have but just time to tell it 
you over ; all I require of you is despatch, therefore 
hear me. 

Vel. There is nothing more requisite in business than 
despatch- 

Sir Geo. Then hear me. 

Vel. It is indeed the life of business- 

Sir Geo. Hear me then I say. 

Vel. And as one has rightly observed, the benefit 
that attends it is four fold. First- 

Sir Geo. There is no bearing this ! thou art a going 
to describe despatch, when thou should’st be practising it. 

Vel. But your honour will not give me the hear¬ 
ing. 

Sir Geo . Thou wilt not give me the hearing. 

[Angrily. 

Vel. I am still. 

Sir Geo . In the first place, you are to lay my wig, 
hat, and sword ready for me in the closet, and one of 
my scarlet coats. You know how Abigail has describ¬ 
ed the ghost to you. 

Vel. It shall be done. 

Sir Geo. Then you must remember, whilst I am lay¬ 
ing this ghost, you are to prepare my wife for the re- 





Act V.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


171 


ception of her real husband; tell her the whole story', 
and do it with all the art you are master of, that the 
surprise may not be too great for her. 

Vel. It shall be done—but’since her honour has seen 
this apparition, she desires to see you once more, before 
you encounter it. 

Sir Geo. I shall expect her impatiently. For now I 
can talk to her without being interrupted by that im¬ 
pertinent rogue. Tinsel. I hope thou hast not told 
Abigail any thing of the secret. 

Vel. Mrs. Abigail is a woman ; there are many rea¬ 
sons why she should not be acquainted with it : I shall 
only mention six.- 

Sir Geo . Hush, here she comes ! oh, my heart! 

Enter Lady and Abigail. 

Sir Geo. [ Aside., while Vellum talks in dumb show to the 
lady. ] O, that loved woman ! how I long to take her 
into my arms ! if I find I am still dear to her memory, it 
will be a return to life, indeed ! but I must take care of 
indulging this tenderness, and put on a behaviour more 
suitable to my present character. [JValks at a distance 
in a pensive posture, waving his wand.~\ 

Lady. [To Vellum .] This is surprising indeed ! so all 
the servants tell me ; they say he knows every thing that 
has happened in the family. 

Abig. [aside. ] A parcel of credulous fools ! they first 
tell him their secrets, and then wonder how he comes to 
_ know them. 

[ Exit Vellum , exchanging fond looks with Abigail. 

Lady. Learned Sir, may I have some conversation 
with you, before you begin your ceremonies ? 

Sir Geo . Speak ! but hold—first let me feel your pulse. 

Lady. What can you learn from that ? 

Sir Geo. I have already learned a secret from it, that 
will astonish you. 

Lady. Pray what is it ? 

Sir Geo. You will have a husband within this half 
hour. 




172 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act V* 

Abig. [aside .] I am glad to hear that-he must 

mean Mr. Fantome; I begin to think there’s a great 
deal of truth in his art. 

Lady. Alas ! I fear you mean I shall see Sir George’s 
apparition a second time. 

Sir Geo. Have courage ; you shall see the apparition 
no more. The husband I mention shall be as much 
alive as I am. 

Abig. Mr. Fantome, to be sure. [aside. 

Lady. Impossible ! I loved my first too well. 

Sir Geo. You could not love the first better than you 
will love the second. 

Abig. [asided] I’ll be hanged if my dear steward has 
not instructed him; he means Mr. Fantome to be sure ; 
the thousand pound is our own ! 

Lady. Alas ! you did not know Sir George. 

Sir Geo. As well as I do myself-1 saw him with 

you in the red damask room, when he first made- love to 
you ; your mother left you together, under pretence of 
receiving a visit from Mrs. Hawthorn, on her return 
from London. 

Lady. This is astonishing ! 

Sir Geo. You were a great admirer of a single life for 
the first half hour ; your refusals then grew still fainter 
and fainter. With what ecstasy did Sir George kiss 
your hand, when you told him you should always follow 
the advice of your mamma ! 

Lady. Every circumstance to a tittle. 

Sir Geo. Then lady ! the wedding night l I saw you 
in your white satin night-gown: you would not come 
out* of your dressing room, till Sir George took you 
out by force. He drew you gently by the hand—you 
struggled—but he was too strong for you—you blush¬ 
ed, he— 

Lady. Oh ! stop there! go no further—he knows 
every thing. [aside. 

Abig. Truly, Mr. Conjurer, I believe you have been 
a wag in your youth. 

Sir Geo • Mrs, Abigail, you know what your good 




THE DRUMMER. 


Act V.] 


173 


word cost Sir George, a purse of broad pieces, Mrs. 
Abigail—— 

Abig. The devil’s in him [aside. ] Pray, Sir, since you 
have told so far, you should tell my lady that I refused 
to take them. 

Sir Geo. ’Tis true, child, he was forced to thrust 
them into your bosom. 

Abig. This rogue will mention the thousand pound, 
if I don’t take care, [aside.~\ Pray, Sir, though you are 
a conjurer, methinks you need not be a blab- 

Lady. Sir, since I have now no reason to doubt of 
your art, I must beseech you to treat this apparition 
gently—it has the resemblance of my deceased husband ; 
if there be any undiscovered secret, any thing that trou¬ 
bles his rest, learn it of him. 

Sir Geo. I must, to that end, be sincerely informed by 
you, whether your heart be engaged to another ; have 
not you received the addresses of many lovers since his 
death. 

Lady. I have been obliged to receive more visits, 
than have been agreeable. 

Sir Geo. Was not Tinsel welcome ?—I am afraid to 


hear an answer to my own question. 

[aside. 

Lady. He was well recommended. 

Sir Geo. Racks ! 

[aside. 

Lady. Of a good family. 

, Sir Geo. Tortures ! 

[aside. 

Lady. Heir to a considerable estate. 
Sir Geo. Death i [aside. And you 

still love him ? 


-I’m distracted ! [aside. 

Lady. No, I despise him. I found he had a design 
upon my fortune, was base, profligate, cowardly, and 
every thing that could be expected from a man of the 
vilest principles- 

Sir Geo. I am recovered. [aside. 

Abig. Oh, madam, had you seen how like a scoundrel 
he looked when he left your ladyship in a swoon. 
Where have you left my lady ? says I. In an elbow 
chair, child, says he: and where are you going ? says I. To 
town, child, says he, for to tell thee truly, child, says 






174 THE DRUMMER. [ActV. 

he, I don’t care for living under the same roof with the 
devil, says he. 

Sir Geo. Well, lady, I see nothing in all this, that 
may hinder Sir George’s spirit from being at rest. 

Lady. If he knows any thing of what passes in my 
heart, he cannot but be satisfied of that fondness which 
I bear to his memory. My sorrow for him is always 
fresh when I think of him. He was the kindest, truest, 
tenderest—tears will not let me go on- 

Sir Geo. This quite overpowers me—I shall discover 
myself before my time. [aside] —madam, you may now 
retire and leave me to myself. 

Lady. Success attend you ! 

Abig. I wjsh Mr. Fantome gets well of from this old 
Don-1 know he’ll be with him immediately, {aside. 

[Exeunt Lady and Abigail. 

Sir George, solus. 

My heart is now at ease, she is the same dear 
woman I left her—now for my revenge upon Fantome 
—I shall cut the ceremonies short; a few words will 
do his business : now let me seat myself in form ; a 
good easy chair for a conjurer this ! now for a few 
mathematical scratches—a good lucky scrawl that ; 
faith, I think it looks very astrological; these two or 
three magical pothooks about it, make it a complete 
conjurer’s scheme. [ Drum beats."] Ha, ha, ha, Sir, are 
you there ? enter, drummer. Now I must pore upon 
my paper. 

Enter Fantome , beating the drum. 

Sir Geo. Pr’ythee don’t make a noise, I’m busy. 

[Fantome beats . 

A pretty march ! pr’ythee beat that over again. 

[He beats and advances. 

Sir Geo. [Rising.] Ha ! you’re very perfect in the 
step of a ghost. You stalk it majestically. [ Fantome 
advances.] How the rogue stares ! he acts it to ad« 
miration ! I’ll be hang’d if he has not been practising 
this half hour in Mrs. Abigail’s wardrobe. [Fantome 


Act V.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


175 


starts , and givest a rap upon his drum''] Pr’ythee don’t 
play the fool. [Fantome beats.] Nay, nay, enough of 
this, good Mr. Fantome. 

Fant. [aside.] Death! I’m discovered. This jade 
Abigail has betrayed me. 

Sir Geo. Mr. Fantome, upon the word of an astrolo¬ 
ger, your thousand pound bribe will never gain my lady 
Trueman. 

Fant. ’Tis plain she has told him all. [aside. 

Sir Geo. Let me advise you to make of? as fast as 
you can, or I plainly perceive by my art, Mr. Ghost 
will have his bones broke. 

Fant. [to Sir George.] Look ye, old Gentleman, I 
perceive you have learned this secret from Mrs. Abigail. 

Sir Geo. I have learnt it from my art. 

Fant. Thy art ? pr’ythee no more of that. Look 
ye, I know you are a cheat as much as I am. And if 
thou wilt keep my counsel, I’ll give thee ten broad 
pieces. 

Sir Geo. I am not mercenary ! young man, I scorn 
thy gold. 

Fant. I’ll make them up twenty- 

Sir Geo. Avaunt ! and that quickly, or I’ll raise 
such an apparition, as shall-*- 

Fant. An apparition, old gentleman ! you mistake 
your man ; I am not to be frighted with bugbears- 

Sir .Geo. Let me retire but for a few moments, and I 
will give thee such a proof of my art- 

Fant. Why, if thou hast any hocus. pocus tricks to play, 
why can’st not do them here ? 

Sir Geo. The raising of a spirit requires certain secret 
mysteries to be performed, and words to be muttered in 
private- 

Fant. Well, if 1 see through your trick, you will 
promise to be my friend ? 

Sir Geo. I will, attend and tremble. • [Exit. 

Fantome, solus. 

Fant. A very solemn old ass ! but I smoke him—he 
has a mind to raise his price upon me. I could not think 



176 


THE DRUMMER. 


[Act V- 


this slut would have used me thus—I begin to be hor¬ 
ribly tired of my drum. I wish I was well rid of it. 
However, I have got this by it, that it has driven off 
Tinsel for good .and all ; I shan’t have the mortification 
to see my mistress carried off by such a rival. Well, 
whatever happens, I must stop this old fellow’s mouth. 
I must not be sparing in hush-money. But here he 
comes. 

j Enter Sir George, in his own habit . 

Fant . Ha 1 what’s that ! Sir George Trueman ! 
this can be no counterfeit. His dress ! his shape ! 
his face ! the very wound of which he died ! nay, then 
*tis time to decamp ! [ Runs off. 

Sir Geo. Ha, ha, ha! Fare yon well, good Sir George. 

--the enemy has left me master of the field : here are 

the marks of my victory. This drum will I hang up 
in my great hall as the trophy of the day. 

Enter Abigail. 

[Sir George stands with his hand before his face in 
a musing posture. 

Abig. Yonder he is ! O’ my conscience he has driven 
off the conjurer. Mr. Fantome, Mr. Fantome ? I give 
you joy, I give you joy. What do you think of your 
thousand pounds now ! Why does not the man speak ? 

[Pulls him by the sleeve. 

Sir Geo. Ha! [Taking his hand from his face. 

Abig. Oh ! ’tis my master ! [ Shrieks. 

[.Running away y he catches her. 

Sir Geo. Good Mrs. Abigail, not so fast. 

Abig. Are you alive, Sir ?—He has given my shoul¬ 
der such a cursed tweak ! they must be real fingers. I 
feel them I’m sure. 

Sir Geo. What dost think ? 

Abig. Think, Sir, think ? troth I don’t know what 
to think. Pray, Sir, how- 

Sir Geo. No questions, good Abigail. Thy curiosi¬ 
ty shall be satisfied in due time. W here’s your lady l 



Act V.] 


THE DRUMMER. 


177 


Abig. Oh, I’m so frighted—and so glad ! 

Sir Geo. Where’s your lady, I ask you— 

Abig. Marry, I don’t know where I am, .myself—I 
can’t forbear weeping for joy— 

Sir Geo. Your lady, I say, your lady ! I must bring 
you to yourself with one pinch more— 

Abig. Oh ! she has been talking a good while with 
the steward. 

Sir Geo Then he has opened the whole story to her. 
I’m g-hd he has prepared her. Oh ! here she comes ! 

Enter Lady, followed by Vellum. 

Lady. Where is he ? let me fly into his arms ! my 
life ! my soul S my husband ! 

Sir Geo . Oh ! let me catch thee to my heart, dearest 
of women. 

Lady. Are you then still alive, and are you here ? I 
I can scarce believe my senses ! now am I happy indeed ! 

Sir Geo. My heart is too full to answer thee. 

Lady . How could you be so cruel to defer giving me 
that joy which you knew I must receive from your pres¬ 
ence ? you have robbed my life of some hours of happi¬ 
ness that ought to have been in it. 

Sir Geo . It was to make our happiness the more sin- 
| cere and unmixed. There will be now no doubts to dash 
I it. What has been the affliction of our lives, has given 
a variety to them, and will hereafter supply us with a 
thousand materials to talk of. 

Lady. I am now satisfied that it is not in the power 
i of absence to lessen your love towards me. 

Sir Geo. And I am satisfied that it is not in the pow¬ 
er of death to destroy that love which makes me the 
j happiest of men. 

Lady. Was ever woman so blest, to find again the 
I darling of her soul, when she thought him lost forever ! 
j to enter into a kind of second marriage with the only 
man whom she was ever capable of loving ! 

Sir Geo. May it be as happy as our first, I desire no 
more ! believe me, my dear, I want words to express 
! those transports of joy and tenderness which are every 
j moment rising in my heart whilst I speak to thee. 

Q 



178 


THE DRUMMER. [Act VI. 

Enter Servants. 

But. Just as the steward told us, lads ! look you 
there, if he ben’t with my lady already. 

Gard . He ! he ! he ! what a joyful night will this be 
for madam ! 

Coach. As I was coming in at the gate, a strange 
gentleman whisked by me ; but he took to his heels, 
and made away to the George. If I did not see master 
before me, I should have sworn it had been hk honour. 

Gard. Hast given orders for the bells to be set a 
ringing? 

Coach., Never trouble thy head about that, ’tis done. 

Sir Geo. [To Lady.'] My dear, I long as much to. 
tell you my whole story, as you do to hear it. In the 
mean while I am to look upon this as my wedding day. 
I’ll have nothing but the voice of mirth and feasting in 
my house. My poor neighbours and my servants shall 
rejoice with me. My hall shall be free to every one, 
and let my cellars be thrown open. 

But. Ah ! bless your honour, may you never die 
again ! 

Coach. The same good man that ever he was. 

Gard. Whurra ! 

Sir Geo . Vellum, thou hast done me-much service to¬ 
day ; I know thou lovest Abigail, but she’s disappoint¬ 
ed in a fortune. I’ll make it to both of yon. I’ll give 
thee a thousand pound with her. It is not fit there 
should be one ‘sad heart in my house to-night. 

Lady. What you do for Abigail, I know is meant as 
a compliment to me. This is a new instance of your 
love. * ' 7, | - 

Abig. Mr. Vellum, you are a well spoken man : pray 
do you thank my master and my lady. ' • 

Sir Geo. Vellum, I hope you are not displeased with 
the gift I make. 

Vellum. 

The.gift is twofold. I receive from you * 

The virtuous partner , and a portion too j 
For which , in humble wise , I thank the donors : 

And so we lid good night to loth your honours . 


EPILOGUE. 


SPOKEN BY MBS. OLDFIEI.D. 


TO-NIGHT the poet’s advocate I stand, 

And he deserves the favour at my hand, 

Who in iny equipage their cause debating ; 

Has plac’d two lovers, and a third in waiting ; 

If both the first should from their duty swerve, 
There’s one behind the wainscot in reserve. 

In his next play if I would take this trouble, 

He promis’d me to make the number double : 

In troth ’twas spoke like an obliging creature, 

For though ’tis simple, yet it shows good nature. 

My help thus ask’d, I could not choose but grant it, 
And really I thought the play would want it, 

Void as it is of all the usual arts 

To warm your fancies and to steal your hearts : 

No court intrigue, no city cuckoldom, 

No song, no dance, no musick-—but a drum— 

No smutty thought in doubtful phrase exprest ; 
And, gentlemen, if so, pray where’s the jest ? 

When we would raise your mirth, you hardly know 
Whether in strictness you should laugh or no. 

But turn upon the ladies in the pit, 

And if they redden, you are sure 'tis'wit. 

Protect him, then, ye fair ones ; for the fair 
Of all conditions, are his equal care. 

He draws a widow, who, of blameless carriage, 
True to her jointure, hates a second marriage. 

And to improve a virtuous wife’s delights. 

Out of one man contrives two wedding nights. 

Nay, to oblige the sex in ev’ry state, 

A nymph of five and forty finds her mate. 


180 


EPILOGUE. 


Too long has marriage in this tasteless age,- 
With ill-bred raillery supplied the stage, 

No little scribbler is of wit so bare, 

But has his fling at the poor wedded pair. 

Our authour deals not in conceits so stale: 

For should the examples of his play prevail, 

No man need blush, though true to marriage vows,. 
Nor be a jest though he should love his spouse. 

Thus has he done you British consorts right, 

Whose husbands, should they pry like mine to night. 
Would never find you in your conduct slipping. 
Though they, turn* d conjurers to take you tripping. 





ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 















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POEMS 

ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS : 

BY JOSEPH (ADDISON, ESQ. 

TO Mr. DRYDEN. 

HOW long, great Poet, shall thy sacred lays 
Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise. 

Can neither injuries of time, or age, 

Damp thy poetick heat, and quench thy rage ? 

Not so thy Ovid in his exile wrote, 

Grief chill’d his breast, and check’d his rising thought $ 
Pensive and sad, his drooping muse betrays 
The Roman genius in its last decays. 

Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest, 

And second youth is kindled in thy breast : 

Thou mak’st the beauties of the Romans known, 

And England boasts of riches not her own ; 

Thy lines have heighten’d Virgil’s majesty, 

And Horace wonders at himself in thee. 

Thou teachest Persius to inform our Isle, 

In smoother numbers, and a clearer style ; 

And Juvenal, instructed in thy page, 

Edges his satire, and improves his rage. 

Thy copy casts a fairer light on all, 

And still outshines the bright original. 

Now Ovid boasts th’ advantage of thy song, 

And tells his story in the British tongue ; 

Thy charming verse, and fair translations, show 
How thy own laurel first began to grow. 

How wild Lyc^on chang’d by angry gods, 

And frigHed at himself, ran howling through the woods. 





IS* 


POEMS. 


O may’st thou still the noble task prolong, 

Nor age, nor sickness interrupt thy song : 

Then may we wond’ring read, how human limbs 
Have water’d kingdoms, and dissolv’d in streams ; 
Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould 
Turn’d yellow by degrees, and ripen’d into gold : 
How some in feathers, or a ragged hide, 

Have liv’d a second life, and different natures tried. 
Then will thy Ovid, thus transform’d, reveal 
A nobler change than he himself can tell. 

Mag. College , Ox on. Jane 2, 1693; 


—— 

MILTON’s STYLE IMITATED, 

IN A TRANSLATION OF A STORY OUT OF THE THIRD 
iENEID. 

LOST in the gloomy horrour of the night' 

We struck upon the coast where iEtna lies, 

Horrid and waste ; its entrails fraught with fire : 

That now casts out dark fumes and pitchy clouds. 

Vast show’rs of ashes hov’ring in the smoak j 
Now belches molten stones and ruddy flame 
Incens’d, or tears up mountains by the roots, 

Or slings a broken rock aloft in air. 

The bottom works with smother’d fire, involv’d 
In pestilential vapours, stench and smoak. 

’Tis said that thunder-struck Enceladus, 

Grov’ling beneath th’ incumbent mountain’s weight 
Lies stretch’d supine, eternal prey of flames ; 

And when he heaves against the burning load, 
Reluctant, to invert his broiling limbs, 

A sudden earthquake shoots through all the isle, 

And iEtna thunders dreadful under ground, 

Then pours out smoak in wreathing curls convolv’d, 
And shades the sun’s bright orb, and blots out day.. 


POEMS. Jf 185 

Here in the shelter'of the woods we lodg’d, 

And frighted heard strange Sounds and dismal yells. 
Nor saw from whence they came ; for all the night 
A murky storm deep low’ring o’er our heads 
Hung imminent, that; with impervious gloom 
Oppos’d itself to Cynthia’s silver ray, 

And shaded all beneath : but now the sun 
With orient beams had chas’d the dewy night 
From earth and heav’n ; all nature stood disclos’d. 
When looking on the neighb’ring woods we saw 
The ghastly vj&ige of a man unknown, 

An uncouth feature, meagre, pale, and wild, 

Affliction’s foul and terrible dismay 

Sat in his looks, Jiis face impair’d and worn 

With marks,of mmine, speaking sore distress* 

His locks were tangled, and his shaggy beard 
Matted with filth ; in all things else a Greek. 

He first advanc’d in haste ; but when he saw 
Trojans and Trojan arms, in mid career 
Stopp’d short, he back recoil’d as one surpris’d r 
But soon recov’jang speed, he ran, he flew 
Precipitant, and thus with piteous cries 
Our ears assail’d : “ By heav’n’s eternal fires. 

By ev’ry god that sits enthron’d on high, 

By this good light, relieve a wretch forlorn, 

And bear me hence to any distant $hore, 

So I may shun this savage race accurst. 

*Tis true I fought among the Greeks that late 
With sword and fire o’erturn’d Neptunian Troy, 

And laid the labour of the gods in dust ; 

For which, if so the sad offence deserves, 

Plung’d in the deep for ever let me lie 
Whelm’d under seas ; if death must be my doom. 

Let man inflict it, and I die well pleas’d.” 

He ended here, and now profuse of tears 
In suppliant mood fell prostrate at our feet ; 

We bade him speak from whence, and what he was. 
And how by stress of fortune sunk thus low ; 

Anchises too with friendly aspect mild 
Gave him his hand, sure pledge of amity ; 

When, thus encourag’d, he began his tale. 




W- ' % 

186 ,,gOEMS. 

“ I’m one,” says he, “ of poor descent, my name 
Is Achamenides, my country Greece ; 

Ulysses’ sad compeer, who whilst he fled 
The raging Cyclops, left me here.behind 
Disconsolate, forlorn ; within the cave 
He left me, giant Polypheme’s dark cave ; 

A dungeon wide and horrible, the walls 

On all sides furr’d with mouldy damps, and hung 

With clots of ropy ..gore, and human limbs, 

His dire repast : himself’s of mighty size, 

Hoarse in his voice, and in his visage grim, 

Intractable, that riots on the flesh 
Of mortal men, and swills the vital blood. 

Him did I see snatch up with horrid grasp 
Two sprawling Greeks, in either hand a man ; 

I saw him when with huge tempestuous sway 
He dash’d and broke ’em on the groundsil edge*; 

The pavement swam in blood, the walls around 

Were spatter’d o’er with brains. He lapp’d the blood, . 

And chew’d the tender flesh still warm with life, 

That swell’d and heav’d itself amidst his teeth 
As sensible of pain. Not less mean while 
Our chief incens’d and studious of revenge, 

Plots his destruction, -which he thus effects. 

The giant, gorg’d with flesh, and wine, and blood, 

Lay stretch’d at length and snoring in his den, 

Belching raw gobbets from his maw, o’ercharg’d 
With purple wine and curdled gore confus’d. 

We gather’d found, and to his single eye, 

The single eye that in his forehead glar’d, 

Like a full moon, or a broad burnish’d shieldj 
A forky staff we dext’rously applied, 

Which in the spacious socket turning round,' 

Scoop’d out the big round jelly from its orb. 

But let me not thus interpose delays ; 

Fly mortals, fly this curs’d detested race : 

A hundred of the same stupendous size, 

A. hundred Cyclops live among the hills, 

Gigantick brotherhood, that stalk along 
With horrid strides o’er the high mountain’s tops. 
Enormous in their gait 1 I oft have heard 


187 


POEMS^ 

Their voice and tread, oft seen ’em as they past, 
Sculking and scow’ring down, half dead with fear. 
Thrice has the moon wash’d all her orb in light, 
Thrice traveled o’er in her obscure ^ojourn 
The realms of night inglorious, since I’ve liv’d 
Amidst these woods, gleaning from thorns and shrubs 
A wretched sustenance.” As thus he spoke, 

We saw descending from a neighb’ring hill 
Blind Polypheme ; by weary steps and slow 
The groping giant with a trunk of pine 
Explor’d his vjjay.; around, his woolly flocks 
Attended grazing ; to the well known shore 
He bent his course, and on the margin stood, 

A hideous monster, terrible, deform’d ; 

Full in the midst of his high front there gap’d 
The spacious hollow where his eye-ball roll’d, 

•A shastly orifice,; he rins’d the wound, 

And Wwijpd away the strings and clotted blood 
That cak’d within ; then stalking through the deep 
He fords the ocean, while the topmost wave 
Scarce reaches up his middle side ; we stood 
Amaz’d be sure ; a sudden horronr chill 
Ran through £a ch nerve, and thrill’d in ev’ry vein, 

3 f ill using all ti^ force of winds and oars 
We sped away ; hujj earc i j n our course} 

And with.his out-stre^j^ arms around him grop’d, 
But finding nought width k is reach} } ie ra i s ’d 
Such hideous shouts that air«]^g ocean shook. 

! Ev’n Italy, though many a lea^^ e remote, 

In distant echo’s answer’d ; -/EtiK r 0 ar’d, 

| Through ail its intnost winding cavei^ roar »d. 

Rous’d with the sound, the mighty 

• Of one ey’d brothers hasten to the shore, 

l And gather round the bellowing Polypheme, 

1 A dire assembly : we with eager haste 

• Work ev’ry one, and from afar behold 
A host of giants cov’ring all the shore. 

So stands a forest tall of mountain oaks 
! Advanc’d to mighty growth : the traveller 
I Hears from the humble valley w^ere he rides. 


188 


POEMS. 


The hollow murmurs of the winds that blow 
Amidst the boughs, and at the distance sees 
The shady tops of trees unnumber’d rise ; 

A stately prospect, waving in the clouds. 


>0Mjnw 


A TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL’S 
FOURTH GEORGICK, 

EXCEPT THE STORE OF ARISTJEUS. 

ETHERIAL sweets shall next my muse engage, 
And this, Mecsenas, claims your patronage. 

Of little creatures’ wondrous acts I treat, J 
The ranks and mighty leaders of their state, /• 
Their laws, employments, and their wars relate, j 
A trifling theme provokes my humble lays. 

Trifling the theme, not so the Poet’s praise. 

If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine, 

Join in the piece, to make the work divir— 

First for your bees a proper station an d> 

That’s fenc’d about, and shelter’d eom t “ e < Wind ; 

For winds divert ’em in their flb at > an d drive 
The swarms, when laden, homeward, from their hive. 
Nor sheep, nor goats mim pasture near their stores. 

To trample under foo^ he springing flowers; 

Nor frisking heifeu oound about the ]? lace > 

To spurn the de r -drops off, and bruise the rising grass. 
Nor must the w-zard’s painted brood appear, 

Nor wood--‘ c ^ Sj nor t^ e swallow harbour near : 

They the swarms, and as they fly along, 

£ r . .vey the tender morsels to their young. 

Let purling streams and fountains edg’d with moss, 
And shallow rills run trickling through the grass ; 

Let branching olives o’er the fountain grow, 

Or palms shoot up, and shade the streams below; 

That when the youth, led by their princes, shun 
The crowded hive, and sport it in the sun, 


POEMS* 


r$9 


Refreshing springs may tempt them from the heat, 

And shady covet ts yield a cool retreat. 

Whether the neighbouring water stands or runs, 

Lay twigs across, and bridge it o’er with stones ; 

That if rough storms, or sudden blasts of wind 
Should dip, or scatter those that lag behind, 

Here they may settle on the friendly stone, 

And dry their reeking pinions at the sun. 

Plant all the flow’ry banks with lavender. 

With store of sav’ry scent the fragrant air, 

Let running betony the field o’crspread, 

And fountains soak the violets dewy bed. 

Though barks, or plaited willows make your hive, 

A narrow inlet to their cells contrive ; 

For colds congeal and freeze the liquours up, 

And, melted down with heat, the waxen buildings drop. 
The bees of both extremes alike afraid, 

Their wax around the whistling crannies spread, 

And suck out clammy dews from herbs and flow’rs, 

To smear the chinks and plaister up the pores: 

For this they hoard up glue, whose clinging drops, 
Like pitch, or birdlime, hang in stringy ropes. 

They oft, ’tis said, in dark retirements dwell, 

And work, in subterraneous caves, their cell ; 

At other times, th’ industrious insects live 
In hollow rocks, or make a tree their hive. 

Point all their chinky lodgings round with mud, 

And leaves must thinly on your work be strow’d : 

But let no baleful yew-tree flourish near, 

Nor rotten marshes send out steams of mire : 

Nor burning crabs grow red and crackle in the fire 
Nor neigh’bring caves return the dying sound, 

Nor echoing rocks the doubled voice rebound. 

Things thus prepar’d— 

When th’ under-world is seiz’d with cold and night, 
And summer here descends in streams of light, 

The bees through woods and forests take their flight. 

They rifle ev’ry flow’r, and lightly skim 

The crystal brook, and sip the running stream : 

And thus they feed their young with strange delight, 

R 


J 


i&O 


POEMS’ 


J 

‘i 


And knead the yielding wax, and work the slimy sweet. 
But when on high you see the bees repair, 

Borne on the winds through distant tracks of air, 

And view the winged cloud all black’ning from afar 
While shady coverts, and fresh streams they choose, 
Milfoil and common honey-suckles bruise, 

And sprinkle on their hives the fragrant juice. 

On brazen vessels beat a tinkling sound, 

And shake the cymbals of the goddess round ; 

Then all will.hastily retreat, andjill 
The warm resounding hollow of their cell. 

If once two rival kings their right debate, 

And factions and cabals embroil the state, 

The people’s actions will their thoughts declare ; 

All their hcart 3 tremble and beat thick with war ; 
Hoarse broken sounds, like trumpets’ harsh alarms. 
Run through the hive,.and call ’em to their arms 4 
All in a hurry spread their shiv’ring wings, 

And fit their claws and point their angry stings.: 

In crowds before the king’s pavilion meet, 

And boldly challenge out the foe to fight. 

At last, when all the heav’ns are warm and fair, 

They rush together out, and join ; the air 
Sivarins thick, and echoes with the humming war. 

All in a firm round cluster mix, and strow 
With heaps of little corps the earth below : 

As thick as hailstones from the floor rebound, 

Or shaken acorns rattle on the.ground. 

No sense of danger can their kings control, 

Their little bodies lodge a mighty soul: 

Each obstinate in arms, pursues his blow, 

Till shameful flight secures the routed foe. 

This hot dispute, and all this mighty fray, 

A little dust flung upward will allay. 

But when both kings are settled in their hive, 

Mark him who looks the worst, and lest he live 
Idle at home in ease and luxury, 

The lazy monarch must be doom’d .to die ; 

So let the royal insect rule alone, 

And reign without a rival in his throne. 


i 


POEMS. 


191 


The kings are different ; one of better note 
All speckt with gold, and many a shining spot, 
Looks gay, and glistens in a gilded coat ; * 

But love of ease, and sloth in one prevails, 

That scarce his hanging paunch behind him trail 
The people’s looks are different as their king’s-, 
Some sparkle bright, and glitter in their wings : 
Others look loathsome and diseas’d with sloth ; 
Like a faint traveller whose dusty mouth 



Grows dry with heat, and spits a mawkish froth. J 
The first are best— 

From their o’erflowing combs, you’ll often press 
Pure luscious sweets, that mingling in the glass. 

Correct the harshness of the racy juice, 

And a rich flavour through the wine diffuse. 

But when they sport abroad, and rove from home, 

And leave the cooling hive, and quit th’ unfinish’d 
comb : 

Their airy ramblings are with ease confin’d ; 

Clip their king’& wings, and if they stay behind, 

No bold usurper dares invade their right, 

Nor sound a march, nor give the sign for flight. 

Let flow’ry banks entice ’em to their cells. 

And gardens all perfum’d with native smells : 

Where carv’d Priapus has his fix’d abode, 

The robber’s terrour, and the scare-crow god. 

Wild thyme, and pine trees from their barren hill 
Transplant, and nurse ’em in the neighbouring soil ; 

Set fruit-trees round, nor e’er indulge thy doth, 

But water ’em, and urge their shady growth. 

And here, perhaps, were not I giving o’er, 

And striking sail, and making to the shore, 

I’d shew what art the gard’ners toils require, 

Why rosy paestum blushes twice a year ; 

What streams the verdant succory supply, 

And hoV the thirsty plant drinks rivers dry : 

W T hat with a cheerful green does parsley grace, 

And writhes the bellying cucumber along the twisted 
grass : 

Nor would I pass the soft acanthus o’er, 

Ivy nor myrtle-trees that love the shore ; 



192 


POEMS. 


Nor daffadils, that late from earth’s slow womb 
Unrumple their swoln buds, and show their yellow 
bloom. 

For once I saw in the Tarentine vale. 

Where slow Galesus drench’d the washy soil,. 

An old Corician yeoman, who had got 
A few neglected acres to his lot, 

Where neither corn nor pasture grac’d the field, 

Nor would the vine her purple harvest yield : 

But sav’ry herbs among the thorns were found, 1 
Vervain and poppy-flowers his garden crown’d, > 

And drooping lillies whiten’d all the ground. J 
Blest with these riches he could empires slight, 

And when he rested from his toils at night, 

The earth unpurchas’d dainties would afford. 

And his own garden furnish out his board : 

The Spring did first his op’ning roses blow. 

First ripening Autumn bent his fruitful bough. 

When piercing colds had burst the brittle stone, 

And freezing rivers stiffen’d as they run, 

He then would prune the tenderest of his trees. 

Chide the late Spring, and ling’ring western breeze i 
His bees first swarm’d, and made his vessels foam 
With the rich squeezing of the juicy comb. 

Here lindens and the sappy pine increas’d ; 

Here, when gay flow’rs his smiling orchard drest, 

As many blossoms as the Spring could show”, 

So many dangling apples mellow’d on the bough. 

In rows his elms and knotty pear trees bloom, 

And thorns ennobled now to bear a plumb ; 

And spreading plane trees, where supinely laid 
He now enjoys the cool, and quaffs beneath the shade. 
But these for want of room I must omit, 

And leave for future poets to recite. 

Now I’ll proceed their natures to declare, 

Which Jove himself did on the bees confer ; 

Because, invited by the timbrel’s sound, J 

Lodg’d in a cave th’ Almighty Babe they found, > 
And the young god nurs’d kindly under ground. J 
Of all the wing’d inhabitants of air, 

These only make their young the publick care j 


POEMS. 


19$ 

In well dispos’d societies they live, 

And laws and statutes regulate their hive ; 

Nor stray, like others, unconfin’d abroad. 

But know set stations, and a fix’d abode : 

Each provident of cold, in summer flies 
Through fields, and woods, to seek for new supplies, 
And in the common stock unlades his thighs. j 

Some watch the food, some in the meadows ply, 

Taste ev’ry bud, and suck each blossom dry : 

Whilst others, lab’ring in their cells at home, 1 
Temper Narcissus’ clammy tears with gum, > 

For the first ground-work of the golden comb, j 
On this they found their waxen works, and raise 
The yellow fabrick on its gluey base. 

Some educate the young, or hatch the seed 
With vital warmth, and future nations breed ; 

Whilst others thicken all the slimy dews, 

And into purest honey work the juice ; 

Then fill the hollows of the comb, and swell 
With luscious nectar ev’ry flowing cell. 

By turns they watch, by turns with curious eyes 
Survey the heav’ns, and search the clouded skies 
To find out breeding storms, and tell what tempests 
rise. 

By turns they ease the loaden 6\varms, or drive 
The drone, a lazy insect, from their hive. 

The work is warmly ply’d through all the cells, 

And strong with thyme the new* made honey smells. 

So in their caves the brawny Cyclops sweat, 

When with huge strokes the stubborn wedge they 
beat, 

And all th’ unshapen thunder-bolt complete ; 
Alternately their hammers rise and fall, 

Whilst griping tongs turn round the glowing ball. 
With puffing bellows some the flames increase, 

And some in waters dip the hissing mass ; 

Their beaten anvils dreadfully resound, 

And iEtna shakes all o’er, and thunders under ground. 

Thus, if great things we may with small compare, 
The busy swarms their diff ’rent labours share. 

R 2 


19i< 


POEMS. 


Desire of profit urges all degrees ; 

The aged insects, by experience wise, 

Attend the comb, and fashion ev’ry part, 

And shape the-waxen fret-work out with art : 

The young at night, returning from their toils, 

Bring home their thighs clogg’d with the meadows* 
spoils. 

On lavender, and saffron buds they feed, 

On bending osiers, and the balmy reed ; 

From purple violets and the teile, they bring 
Their gather’d sweets, and rifle all the Spring. 

All work together, all together rest, 

The morning still renews their labours past ; 

Then all rush out, their diff ’rent tasks pursue, 

Sit on the bloom and suck the rip’ning dew ; 

Again when ev’ning warns ’em to their home, 

With weary wings, and heavy thighs they come, 
And croud about the chink, and mix a drowsy hum. 
Into their cells at length they gently creep, 

There all the night their peaceful station keep, 
Wrapt up in silence, and dissolv’d in sleep. 

None range abroad when winds or storms are nigh, 
Nor trust their bodies to a faithless sky, 

But make small journies, with a careful wing, 

And fly to water at a neigh’bring spring ; 

And, lest their airy bodies should be cast 
In restless whirls, the sport of ev’ry blast, 

They carry Stones to poise 'em in their flight. 

As ballast keeps th’ unsteady vessel right. 

But of all customs that the bees can boast, 

’Tis this may challenge admiration most ; 

That none will Hymen’s softer joys approve, 

Nor waste their spirits in luxurious love, 

But all a long virginity maintain, 

And bring forth young without a mother’s pain : 
From herbs and fiow’rs they pick each tender bee, 
And cull from plants a buzzing progeny ; 

From these they choose out subjects, and create 
A little monarch of the rising state ; 

Then build wax kingdoms for the infant prince> 
And form a palace for his residence. 


1 


POEMS. 


19S 


But often in their jou*nies, as they fly, 

O n flints they tear their silken wings, or lie 
Grov’ling beneath their flow’ry load, and die, 

Thus love of honey can an insect fire, 

And in a fly such gen’rous thoughts inspire. 

Yet by re-peopling their decaying state, 

Though sev’n short Springs conclude their vital date. 
Their ancient stocks eternally remain, 

And, in an endless race, the children’s children reign. 

No prostrate vassal of the east can more 
With slavish fear his haughty prince adore ^ 

His life unites ’em all ; but when he dies, 


All in loud tumults and distractions rise ; 

They waste their honey, and their combs deface. 

And wild confusion reigns in every place. 

Him all admire, all the great guardian own, 

And croud about his courts, and buzz about his'throne. 
Oft on their backs their weary prince they bear, 1 
Oft in his cause embattled in the air, v 

Pursue a glorious death, in wounds and war. J 
u Some from such instances as these have taught 
The bees extract is heav’nly ; for they thought 
The universe alive ; and that a soul, 

Diffus’d throughout the matter of the whole, 

To all the vast unbounded frame was giv’n, 

And ran through earth, and air, and sea, and all the 
deep of Heav’n ; 

That this first kindled life in man and beast, 

Life that again flows into this at last. 

That no compounded animal could die, 1 

But when dissolv’d the spirited, mounted high, > 

Dwelt in a star, and settled in the sky.” J 
Whene’er their balmy sweets you mean to seize, 
And take the liquid labours of the bees, 

Spurt draughts of water from your mouth, and drive 
A loathsome cloud of smoak amidst their hive. 

Twice in the year their flow’ry toils begin, 

And twice they fetch their dewy harvest in ; 

Once when the lovely Pleiades arise, 

And add fresh lustre to the summer skies; 


196 


POEMS. 


And once when hast’ning from the wat’ry sign 
They quit their station, and forbear to shine. 

The bees are prone to rage, and often found 
To perish for revenge, and die upon the wound. 
Their venom’d sting produces aching pains, 

And swells the flesh, and shoots among the veins. 

When first a cold hard Winter’s storms arrive, 
And threaten death or famine to their hive, 

If now their sinking state and low affairs 
Can move your pity, and provoke your cares, 
Fresh burning thyme before their cells convey, 
And cut their dry and husky wax away ; 

For often lizzards seize the luscious spoils, 

Or drones that riot on another’s toils : 

Oft broods of moths infest the hungry swarms, 1 
And oft the furious wasp their hive alarms > 
With louder hums, and with unequal arms ; j 
Or else the spider at their entrance sets 
Her snares, and spins her bowels into nets. 

When sickness reigns (for they as well as we 
Feel all th’ effects of frail mortality) 

By certain marks the new disease is seen, 

Their colour changes, and their looks are thin ; 
Their fun’ral rites are form’d, and ev’ry bee 
With grief attends the sad solemnity ; 

The few diseas’d survivors, hang before 
Their sickly cells, and droop about the door. 

Or slowly in their hives their limbs unfold, 

Shrunk up with hunger, and benumb’d with cold ; 
In drawling hums, the feeble insects grieve, 

And doleful buzzes echo through the hive, 

Like winds that softly murmur through the trees, 
Like flames pent up, or like retiring seas, 

'Now lay fresh honey near their empty rooms, *} 
In troughs of hollow reeds, whilst frying gums > 
Cast round a fragrant mist of spicy fumes. J 
Thus kindly tempt the famish’d swarm to eat, 
And gently reconcile ’em to their meat. 

Mix juice of galls, and wine, that grow in thyme 
Condens’d by fire, and thicken tg a slime ; 


POEMS. 


19T 


To these dryM roses, thyme and cent’ry join, 

And raisins ripen’d on the Psythian vine. 

Besides there grows a flow’r in marshy ground, 

Its name amellus, easy to be found ; 

A mighty spring works in its root, and cleaves 
The sprouting stalk, and shews itself in leaves : 

The flower itself is of a golden hue. 

The leaves inclining to a darker blue ; 

The leaves shoot thick about the flow’ry and grow 
Into a bush, and shade the turf below : 

The plant in holy garlands often twines 
The altar’s posts, and beautifies the shrines ; 

Its taste is sharp, in vales new-shorn it grows, 

Where Mella’s stream in wat’ry mazes flows. 

Take plenty of its roots, and boil ’em well 
In wine, and heap ’em up before the cell. 

But if the whole stock fail, and none survive ; 

To raise new people, and recruit the hive, 

I’ll here the great experiment declare. 

That spread th’ Arcadian shepherd’s name so far, 

How bees from blood of slaughter’d bulls have fled, 
And swarms amidst the red corruption bred. 

For where th’ Egyptians yearly see their bounds 
Refresh’d with floods, and sail about their grounds. 
Where Persia borders, and the rolling Nile 
Drives swiftly down the swarthy Indian’s soil, 

’Till into sev’n it multiplies its stream, 

And fattens Egypt with a fruitful slime : 

In this last practice all their hope remains, 

And long experience justifies their pains. 

First then a close contracted space of ground, 

With straightn’d walls and low-built roof they found - y 
A narrow shelving light is next assign’d 
To all the quarters, one to every wind ; 

Through these the glancing rays obliquely pierce ; 
Hither they lead a bull that’s young and fierce, 

When two years growth of horn he proudly shows. 
And shakes the comely terrours of his brows : 

His nose and mouth, the avenues of breath, 

They muzzle up, and beat his limbs to death 


f 93 


POEMS. 


With violence to life, and stifling pain 
He flings and spurns, and tries to snort in vain, 
Loud heavy mows fall thick on ev’ry side, 

’Till his bruis’d bowels burst within the hide : 
When dead, they leave him rotting on the ground, 
With branches, thyme and cassia strow’d around. 
All this is done when first the western breeze 
Becalms the year, and smooths the troubled seas j 
Before the chattering swallow builds her nest, 

Or fields in Spring’s embroidery are drest. 

Mean while the tainted juice ferments within, 

And quickens as it works : and now are seen 
A wondrous swarm* that o’er the carcass crawls 
Of shapeless, rude, unfinish’d animals. 

No legs at first the insect’s weight sustain, 

At length it moves its new-made limbs with pain ; 
Now strikes the air with quiv’ring wings* and* tries 
To lift its body up, and learns to rise ; 

Now bending thighs and gilded wings it wears 
Full'grown* and all the bee at length appears ; 
From every side the fruitful carcass pours 
Its Swarming brood, as thick as Summer show’rs, 
Or flights of arrows from the Parthian bows, 
When twanging strings first shoot ’em on the foes. 

Thus have I sung the nature of the bee ; 

While Caesar, towr’ing to divinity, 

The frighted Indians with his thunder aw’d, 

And claim’d their homage, and commenc’d a god. 
I flourish’d all the while in arts of peace, 

Retir’d and shelter’d in inglorious ease : 

I who before the songs of shepherds made, 

When gay and young my rural lays I play’d, 

And set my Tityrus beneath his shade. 


POEMS, 


199 


A SONG; 

■for st. cecilia’s day at oxford. 


1 . 

CECILIA, whose exalted hymns 
With joy and wonder fill the blest, 

In choirs of warbling seraphims 

Known and distinguish’d from the rest, 

Attend, harmonious saint, and see 
Thy vocal sons of harmony ; 

Attend, harmonious saint, and hear our'pray’rs ; 
Enliven all our earthly airs, 

And, as thou sing’st thy God, teach us to sing of thee : 
Tune ev’ry string and ev’ry tongue, 

Be thou the muse and-subject of our song. 

2 . 

Let all Cecilia’s praise proclaim, 

Employ the Echo in her name. 

Hark, how the flutes and trumpets raise, 

At bright Cecilia’s name, their lays. 

The organ labours in her praise. 

Cecilia’s name does all our numbers grace, 

From ev’ry voice the tuneful accents fly, 

In soaring trebles, now it rises high, 

And now it sinks, and dwells upon the base. 

Cecilia’s name through all the notes we sing, 

The w'ork of ev’ry skilful tongue, 

The sound of ev’ry trembling string. 

The sound and triumph of our song. 

3 . 

For ever consecrate the day, 

To musick and Cecilia ; 

Musick, the greatest good that mortals know, 

And all of Heav’n w r e have below. 

Musick can noble hints impart, 


soo 


POEMS. 


Engender fury, kindle love ; 

With unsuspected eloquence can move, 

And manage all the man with secret art. 

When Orpheus strikes the trembling lyre, 

The streams stand still, the stones admire $ 

The list’ning savages advance, 

The wolf and lamb around him trip, 

The bears in awkward, measures leap, 

And tygers mingle in the dance. 

The moving woods attended as he play’d, 

And Rhodope was left without a shade. 

4 . 

Musick, religious heats inspires, 

It wakes the soul, and lifts it high. 

And wings it with sublime desires, 

Aud fits it to bespeak the Deity. 

Th’ Almighty listens to a tuneful tongue. 

And seems well pleas’d, and courted with a song. 
Soft moving sounds, and heav’nly airs, 

Give force to ev’ry word, and recommend our pray’ 
When time itself shall be no more, 

And all things in confusion hurl’d, 

Musick shall then exert its pow’rs, 

And sound sumve the ruins of the world ; 
Then Saints and Angels shall agree 
In one eternal jubilee ; 

All Heav’n sh^li echo with their hymns divine, 
And God himself with pleasure see 
The whole creation in a Chorus join. 

CHORUS. 

Consecrate the place and day, 

To musick and Cecilia. 

Let no rough winds approach, nor dare 
Invade the hallow’d bounds, 

Nor rudely shake the tuneful air. 

Nor spoil the fleeting sounds. 

Nor mournful sigh nor groan be heard, 

But gladness dwell on every tongue ; 


POEMS. 


201 


Whilst all with voice and strings prepar’d. 
Keep up the loud harmonious song, 
And imitate the blest above 
In joy, and harmony, and love. 




A LETTER FROM ITALY, 

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 

CHARLES LORD HALIFAX . 

In the Year 1701. 

Salve magna parens frugiim Saturnia tell us , 

Magna virum ! tibi res antiqnae laudis IA arils 
Aggredior , sanctos ausus recludere fontes. Virg. Geor. 2. 

WHILE you, my lord, the rural shades admire, 

And from Britannia’s publick posts retire, 

Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please, 

For their advantage sacrifice your ease ; 

Me into foreign realms my fate conveys, 

Through nations fruitful of immortal lays, 

Where the soft season and inviting clime 
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhime. 

For wheresoe’er I turn my ravish’d eyes. 

Gay gilded scenes, and shining prospects rise, 

Poetick fields encompass me around, 

And still I seem to tread on classick ground ; 

For here the muse so oft her harp has strung, 

That not a mountain rears its head unsung ; 

Renown’d in verse each shady thicket grows, 

And ev’ry stream in heavenly numbers flows. 

How am I pleas’d to search the hills and woods 
For rising springs and celebrated floods ! 

To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course, 

And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source, 

S „ . oT. 




202 


POEMS. 


To see the Mincio draw his wat’ry store 
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore. 
And hoary Albula’s infected tide 
O’er the warm bed of smoaking sulphur glide. 
Fir’d with a thousand raptures I survey 
Eridanus through..flowery meadows stray. 

The king of floods : that rolling o’er the’plains 
The towering Alps of half their moisture drains, 
And proudly swoln with a whole winter’s snows. 
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows. 

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng, 

.1 look for streams immortaliz’d in song, 

That lost in silence and oblivion lie, 

(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry.) 
Yet run for ever by the muses skill, 

And in the smooth description murmur still. 

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire, 

And the fam’d river’s empty shores admire. 

That destitute of strength derives its course 
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source ; 

Yet sung so often in poetiek lays, 

With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys ; 

So high the deathless muse exalts her theme ! 

Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream, 
That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray’d, 

And unobserv’d in wild meanders play’d ; 

Till by your hnes and Nassau’s sword renown’d. 
Its rising billows through the world resound, 
Wheree’er the hero’s godlike acts can pierce, 

Or where the fame of an immortal verse. 

Oh could the muse my ravish’d breast inspire 
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, 
Unnumber’d beauties in my verse should shine, 
And Virgil’s Italy should yield to mine ! 

See how the golden groves around me smile, 
Tlmt shun the coast of Britain’s stormy isle ; 

Or when transplanted and preserv’d with care. 
Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. 
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments 
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents.: ■ 


POEMS. • 


SOS 


Pv’n the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, 

And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. 

Bear me, some god, to Baia’s gentle seats j 
Or cover me in Umbria’s green retreats ; 

Where western gales eternally reside, 

And all the seasons lavish all their pride : 

Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, 

And the whole year in gay confusion lies. 

Immortal glories in my mind revive, 

And in my soul a thousand passions strive, 

When Rome’s exalted beauties I descry, 

Magnificent in piles of ruin lye. 

An amphitheatre’s amazing height 
Here fills my eye with terrour and delight, 

That on its publick shows unpeopled Rome, 

And held, uncrowded, nations in its womb. 

Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies, 
And here the proud triumphal arches rise, 

Where the old Roman’s deathless acts display’d, 

Their base degenerate progeny upbraid : 

Whole rivers here forsake the fields below, 

And wond’ring at their height through airy channels 
flow. 

Still to new scenes my wand’ring muse retires. 

And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires ; 
Where the smooth chissel all its force has shown, 

And soften’d into flesh the rugged stone. 

In solemn silence, a majestick band, 

Heroes and gods, and Roman consuls stand, 

Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown. 

And empe rours in Parian marble frown ; 

While the bright dames, to whom they humbly sued, 
Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdued. 

Fain would I Raphael’s godlike art rehearse 
And show th’ immortal labours in my verse, 

Where from the mingled strength of shade and light 
A new creation rises to my sight, 

Such heav’nly figures from his pencil flow, 

So warm with life his blended colours glow, 

From theme to theme with secret pleasure tost, 
Amidst the soft variety I’m lost: 




POEMS. 


20* 

Here pleasing airs my ravish’d soul confound 
With circling notes and labyrinth of sound ; 

Here domes and temples rise in distant views, 

And op’ning palaces invite my muse. 

How has kind Heav’n adorn’d the happy land, 
And scatter’d blessings with a wasteful hand ! 

But what avail her unexhausted stores, 

Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, 

With all the gifts that heav’n and earth impart, 

The smiles of nature, and the charms of art. 

While proud oppression in her vallies reigns. 

And tyranny usurps her happy plains ? 

The poor inhabitant beholds in vain 

The read’ning orange and the swelling grain : 

Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, 

And in the myrtle’s fragrant shade repines : 

Starves, in the midst of nature’s bounty curst, 

And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirsts 
Oh Liberty, thou goddess heav’nly bright, 

Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight ! 

Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, 

And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train ; 

Eas’d of her load subjection grows more light. 

And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight : 

Thou mak’st the gloomy face of nature gay, 

Giv’st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. 

Thee, goddess, thee Britannia’s isle adores ; 

How has she oft exhausted all her stores ; 

How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, 

Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought 1 
On foreign mountains may the sun refine 
The grape’s soft juice, and mellow it to wine, 

With citron groves adorn a distant soil, 

And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: 

We envy not the warmer clime, that lies 
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, 

Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, 

Though o’er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine : 

’Tis liberty that crowns Britannia’s isle, 

And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains 
smile. 


POEMS. 


205 


Others with towering piles may please the sight; 
And in their proud aspiring domes delight.; 

A nicer touch to the stretch’d canvass give, 

Or teach their animated rocks to live : 

’Tis Britain’s care to watch o’er Europe’s fate, 
And hold in balance each contending state, 

To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war. 
And answer her afflicted neighbours’ pray’r. 

The Dane and Swede, rous’d up by fierce alarms, 
Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms : 

Soon as her fleets appear, their terrours cease, 

And all the nothern world lies hush’d in peace. 

Th’ ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread 
Her thunder aim’d at his aspiring head, 

And fain her godlike sons would disunite 
By foreign gold, or by domestick spite, 

But strives in vain to conquer or divide, 

Whom Nassau’s arms defend and counsels guide. 

Fir’d with the name, which I so oft have found 
The distant climes and different tongues resound, 

I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, 

That longs to launch into a bolder strain. 

But I’ve already troubled you too long, 

Nor dare attempt a more advent’rous song. 

My humble verse demands a softer theme, 

A painted meadow, or a purling stream; 

Unfit for heroes, whom immortal lays. 

And lines like Virgil’s or like yours, should praise. 


S2 





206 


POEMS. 


THE CAMPAIGN ; 

A POEM, 

TO HIS GRACE THE 

DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH. 

- Rheni pacator & Istru 

Omnis in hoc uno n arils discordia cessit 
Ordinihus ; laetatur Equos , plauditque Senator , 

Votaquc Patricio certant Pleheia favori. 

* Claud, de Laud. Stilic. 

Esse aliquam in- terris gentem quae sua impensd , suo labore 
ac. periclo bella gerat pro Libertate aliorum , Nec hoc 
fininimis , aut propinquae •vicinitatis hominibus , aut terris 
continenti junctis praestet. Maria trajiciat tie quod 
toto orbe terrarum injustum imperium sit , & ubique jus, 
fas , lex potentissima sint. Liv. Hist. Lib. 33. 

WHILE crowds of princes your deserts proclaim,. 
Proud in their number to enroll your name ; 

While emperours to you commit their cause. 

And Anna’s praises crown the vast applause ; 

Accept, great leader, what the muse recites, 

That in ambitious verse attempts your fights, 

Eir’d and transported with a theme so new, 

Ten thousand wonders op’ning to my view 
Shine forth at once ; sieges and storms appear, 

And wars and conquests fill th’ important year ; 

Livers of blood I see, and hills of slain, 

An Iliad rising out of one campaign. 

The haughty Gaul beheld, with towering pride. 

His ancient bounds enlarg’d on ev’ry side, 

Pyrene’s lofty barriers were subdu’d, 

And in the midst of his wide empire stood ; 

Ausonia’s states, the victor to restrain, 

Oppos’d their Alps and Appenines in vain, 



POEMS. 207 

Nor found themselves, with strength of rocks immur’d 
Behind their everlasting hills secur’d ; 

The rising Danube its long race began, 

And half its course through the new conquests ran ; 
Amaz’d and anxious for her sov’reign’s fates, 

Germania trembled through a hundred states ; 

Great Leopold himself was seiz’d with fear, 

He gaz’d around, but saw no succour near ; 

He gaz’d, and half abandon’d to despair 
His hopes on heav’n, and confidence in pray’r. 

To Britain’s queen the nations turn their, eyes. 

On her resolves the western world relies, 

Confiding still, amidst its dire alarms, 

In Anna’s councils, and in Churchill’s arms : 

Thrice happy Britain, from the kingdoms rent, 

To sit the gurdian of the continent ! 

That sees her bravest son advanc’d so high, 

And flourishing so near her prince’s eye : 

Thy fav’rites grow not up by fortune’s sport. 

Or from the crimes, or follies of a court ; 

On the firm basis of desert they rise, 

From long tried faith, and friendship’s holy ties : 

Their sov’reign’s well distinguish’d smiles they share, 
Her ornaments in peace, her strength in war ; 

The nation thanks them with a publick voice, 

By show’rs of blessings Heav’n approves their choice. 
Envy itself is dumb, in wonder lost, 

And factions strive who shall applaud ’em most. 

Soon as the vernal breezes warm the sky, 

Britannia’s colours in the zephyrs fly ; 

Her chief already has his march begun,. 

Crossing the provinces himself had won, 

Till the Moselle, appearing from afar, 

Retards the progress of the moving war : 

Delightful stream, had nature bid her fall 
In distant climes, far from the perjur’d Gaul; 

But now a purchase to the sword she lies, 

Her harvests for uncertain owners rise. 

Each vineyard doubtful of its master grows, 

And to the victor’s bowl each vintage flows : 


203 


POEMS. 


The discontented shades of slaughter’d hosts, 

That wander’d on her banks, her hero’s ghosts 
Hop’d, when they saw Britannia’s arms appear, 
The vengeance due to their great deaths was near. 

Our godlike leader, ere the stream he past, 

The mighty scheme of all his labours cast, 
Forming the wond’rous year within his thought ; 
His bosom glow’d with battles yet unfought. 

The long laborious march he first surveys, 

And joins the distant Danube to the Maese ; 
Between whose floods such pathless forests grow. 
Such mountains rise, so many rivers flow: 

The toil looks lovely in the hero’s eyea, 

And danger serves but to enhance the prize. 

Big with the fate of Europe, he renews 
His dreadful course, and the proud foe pursues : 
Infected by the burning Scorpion’s heat, 

The sultry gales round his chaf’d temples beat. 
Till on the borders of the Maine he finds 
Defensive shadows, and refreshing winds : 

Our British youth, with inborn freedom bold, 
Unnumber’d scenes of servitude behold ; 

Nations of slaves, with tyranny debas’d, 

(Their Maker’s image more than half defac’d) 
Hourly instructed, as they urge their toil. 

To prize their queen, and love their native soil. 

Still to the rising sun they take their way 
Through clouds of dust, and gain upon the day. 
When now the Neckar on its friendly coast 
With cooling streams revives the fainting host, 
That cheerfully its labours past forgets, 

The midnight watches and the noonday heats. 
O’er prostrate towns and palaces they pass, 

(Now cover’d o’er with weeds and hid in grass) 
Breathing revenge ; whilst anger and disdain 
Fire ev’ry breast, and boil in ev’ry vein : 

Here shatter’d walls, like broken rocks, from far 
Rise up in hideous views, the guilt of war. 
Whilst here the vine o’er hills of ruin climbs, 
Industrious to conceal great Bourbon’s crimes. 


POEMS. 


209 


At length the fame of England’s hero drew 
Eugenio to the glorious interview ; 

Great souls by instinct to each other turn, 

Demand alliance, and in friendship burn ; 

A sudden friendship, while with stretch’d out rays 
They meet each other, mingling blaze with blaze. 
Polish’d in courts, and harden’d in the field, 

Renown’d for conquest, and in council skill’d, 

Their courage dwells not in a troubled flood 
Of mounting spirits, and fermenting blood ; 

Lodg’d in the soul, with virtue overrul’d, 

Inflam’d by reason, and by reason cool’d, 

In hours of peace content to be unknown, 

And only in the field of battle shown : 

To souls like these, in mutual friendship join’d, 

Heav’n dares entrust the cause of human kind. 
Britannia’s graceful sons appear in arms, 

Her harass’d troops the hero’s presence warms, 

Whilst the high hills and rivers all around 
With thund’ring peals of British shouts resound : 
Doubling their speed they march with fresh delight, 
Eager for glory, and require the fight. 

So the stanch hound the trembling deer pursues, 

And smells his footsteps in the tainted dews, 

The tedious track unrav’ling by degrees : 

But when the scent comes warm in ev’ry breeze, 

Fir’d at the near approach, he shoots away 
On his full stretch, and bears upon his prey. 

The march concludes, the various realms are past, 
Th’ immortal Schellenberg appears at last : 

Like hills th’ aspiring ramparts rise on high, 

Like vallies at their feet the trenches lie; 

Batt’ries on batt’ries guard each fatal pass, 

Threat’ning destruction ; rows of hollow brass, 

Tube behind tube, the dreadful entrance keep. 

Whilst in their wombs ten thousand thunders sleep: 
Great Churchill owns, charm’d with the glorious sight. 
His march o’er paid by such a promis’d fight. 

The western sun now shot a feeble ray, 

And faintly scatter’d the remains of day, 


210 


POEMS. 


Ev’hing approach’d; but oh, what host of foes 
Were never to behold that' ev’ning close ! 
Thick’ning their ranks, and wedg’d in firm array. 
The close compacted Britons win their way ; 

In vain the cannon their throng’d war defac’d 
With tracts of death, and laid the battle waste ; 
Still pressing forward to the fight, they broke 
Through flames of sulphur, and a night of smoke. 
Till slaughter’d legions fill’d the trench below, 
And bore their fierce avengers to the foe. 

High on the works the mingling hosts engage $ 
The battle kindled into tenfold rage. 

With show’rs of bullets and with storms of fire 
Burns in full fury, heaps on heaps expire, 

Nations with nations mix’d confus’dly die, 

And lost in one promiscuous carnage lie. 

How many gen’rous Britons meet their doom, 
New to the field, and heroes in the bloom ! 

Th’ illustrious youths, that left their native shore 
To march where'Britons never march’d before, 

(O fatal love of fame ! O glorious heat, 

Only destructive to the brave and great !) 

After such toils o’ercome, such dangers past, 
Stretch’d on Bavarian ramparts breathe their last. 
But hold, my muse, may no complaints appear, 
Nor blot the day with an ungrateful tear : 

While Marlbro’ lives Britannia’s stars dispense 
A friendly light, and shine in ihnocence. 

Plunging through seas of blood his fiery steed 
Wheree’er his friends retire, or foes succeed ; 
Those he supports, these drives to sudden flight, 
And turns the various fortune of the fight. 

Forbear, great man, renown’d in arms forbear 
To brave the thickest terrours of the war, 

Nor hazard thus, confus’d in crowds of foes, 
Britannia’s safety, and the world’s repose ; 

Let nations anxious for thy life abate 
This scorn of danger, and contempt of fate : 
Thou liv’st not for thyself ; thy queen demands 
Conquest and peace from thy victorious hands ; 


POEMS. 


21-1 


Kingdoms and empires in thy fortune join, 

And Europe’s destiny depends on thine. 

At length the long disputed pass they gain, 

By crowded armies fortified in vain ; 

The war breaks in, the fierce Bavarians yield, 

And see their camp with British legions fill’d. 

So Belgian mounds bear on their shatter’d sides 
The sea’s whole weight increas’d with swelling tides. 
But if the rushing wave a passage finds, 

Enrag’d by wat’rv moons,.and warring winds, 

The trembling peasant sees his country round 
Cover’d with tempests, and in oceans drown’d. 

The few-surviving foes dispers’d in flight, 

(Refuse of swords, and gleanings of a fight) 

In ev’ry rustling wind the victor hear, 

And Marlbro’s form in every shadow fear ; 

Till the dark cope of night with kind embrace 
Befriends the rout, and covers their disgrace. 

To Donnawert, with unresisted force. 

The gay victorious army bends its course ; 

The growth of meadows, and the pride of fields. 
Whatever spoils Bavaria’s Summer yields, 

(The Danube’s great increase) Britannia shares. 

The food of armies, and support of wars : 

With magazines of death, destructive balls, 

And cannons doom’d to batter Laendau’s walls, 

The victor finds each hidden cavern stor’d, 

And turns their, fury on their guilty lord. 

Deluded prince ! how is thy greatness crost, 

And all the gaudy dream of empire lost, 

That proudly set thee on a fancied throne. 

And made imaginary realms thy own ! 

Thy troops, that now behind the Danube join, 

Shall shortly seek for shelter from the Rhine, 

Nor find it there : surrounded with alarms, 

Thou hop’st th’ assistance of the Gallic arms; 

The Gallic arms in safety shall advance. 

And crowd thy standards with the power of France, 
While, to exalt thy doom, th’ aspiring Gaul 
Shares thy destruction, and adorns thy fall. 


212 


POEMS. 


Unbounded courage and compassion join’d, 
Temp’ring each other in the victor’s mind, 
Alternately proclaim him good and great, 

And make the hero and the man complete. 

Eong did he strive th’ obdurate foe to gain 
By proffer’d grace, but long he strove in vain ; 
Till fir’d at length he thinks it vain to spare 
His rising wrath, and gives a loose to war. 

In vengeance rous’d the soldier fills his hand 
With sword and fire, and ravages the land, 

A thousand villages to ashes turns, 

In crackling flames a thousand harvests burns ; 

To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat, 

And mix’d with bellowing herds confus’dly bleat ; 
Their trembling lords the common shade partake. 
And cries of infants sound in every brake : 

The list’ning soldier fix’d in sorrow stands, 

Loath to obey his leader’s just commands 
The leader grieves by gen’rous pity sway’d, 

To see his just commands so well obey’d. 

But now the trumpet terrible from far, 

In shriller clangors animates the war, 

Confed’rate drums in fuller concert beat, 

And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat : 

Gallia’s proud standards, to Bavaria’s join’d. 
Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind 
The daring prince his blasted hopes renews, 

And while the thick embattled host he views 
Stretch’d out in deep array, and dreadful length. 
His heart dilates, and glories in his strength. 

The fatal day its mighty course began, 

That the griev’d world had long desir’d in vain : 
States that their new captivity bemoan’d. 

Armies of martyrs that in exile groan’d, 

Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard. 
And pray’rs in bitterness of soul preferr’d, 
Europe’s loud cries, that Providence assail’d, 

And Anna’s ardent vows at length prevail’d ; 

The day was come when Heav’n design’d to show 
His care and conduct of the world below. 


POEMS. 


215 


Behold in awful march and dread array . 

The long extended squadrons shape their way ! 
Death, in approaching terrible, imparts 
An anxious harrour to the bravest hearts, 

Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife, 

And thirst of glory quells the love of life : 

No vulgar fears can British minds controul; 

Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul 
O’eilook the foe, advantag’d by his post, 

Lessen his numbers, and contract his host : 

Though fens and floods possess’d the middle space, 
That unprovok’d they would have fear’d to pass, 
Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia’s bands. 
When her proud foe rang’d on their borders stands. 

But O, my muse, what numbers wilt thou find 
To sing the furious troops in battle join’d ! 

Methinks I hear the drum’s tumultuous sound 
The victor’s shouts and dying groans confound, 

The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies. 

And all the thunder of the battle rise. 

’Twas then great Marlbro’s mighty soul was prov’d, 
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmov’d, 
Amidst confusion, horrour, and despair. 

Examin’d all the dreadful scenes of war ; 

In peaceful thought the field of death survey’d, 

To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, 

Inspir’d repuls’d battalions to engage, 

And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. 

So when an Angel by divine command 
With rising tempests shakes a guilty‘land. 

Such as of late o’er pale Britannia past. 

Calm and serene he drives the furious blast ; 

And, pleas’d th’ Almighty’s orders to perform, 
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. 

But see the haughty household troops advance i. 
The dread of Europe, and the pride of France. 

The wars whole art each private soldier knows. 

And with a gen’ral’s love of conquest glows ; 
Proudly he marches on and void of fear 
Laughs at the shaking of the British spear : 

T 



214. 


POEMS. 


Vain insolence ! with native freedom brave 
The meanest Briton scorns the highest slave, 

Contempt and fury fire their souls by turns, 

Each nation’s glory in each warriour burns, 

Each fights, as in his arm th’ important day 
And all the fate of his great monarch lay. 

A thousand glorious actions, that might claim 
Triumphant laurels, and immortal fame, 

Confus’d in crowds of glorious actions lie, 

* And troops of heroes undistinguish’d die. 

O Dormer, how can I behold thy fate 
And not the wonders of thy youth relate ! 

Plow can I see the gay, the brave, the young, 

Fail in the cloud of war, and lie unsung ! 

In joys of conquest he resigns his breath, 

And, fill’d with England’s glory, smiles in death. 

The rout begins, the Gallic squadrons run 
Compell’d in crowds to meet the fate they shun. 
Thousands of fiery steeds with wounds transfix’d 
Floating in gore, with their dead masters mixt. 

Midst heaps of spears and standards driv’n around. 

Lie in the Danube’s bloody whirlpools drown’d. 
Troops of bold youths, born on the distant Soan ; 

Or sounding borders of the rapid Rhone, 

Or where the Seine her flow’ry fields divides, 

Or where the Loire through winding vineyards glides, 
In heaps the rolling billows sweep away, 

And into Scythian seas their bloated corps convey. 
From Blenheim’s tow’rs the Gaul, with wild affright, 
Beholds the various havock of the fight, 

His waving banners, that so oft had stood 
Planted in fields' of death, and streams of blood. 

So wont the guarded enemy to reach, 

And rise triumphant in the fatal breach, 

Or pierce the broken foe’s remotest lines, 

The hardy veteran with tears resigns. 

Unf rrtunate Tallard ! Oh, who can name 
The pangs of rage, of sorrow, and of shame, 

TLa< with mixe tumult in thy bosom swell d ! 

When first thou saw’st thy bravest troops repell’d, 


POEMS. 


215 


Thine only son pierc’d with a deadly wound, 

Chok’d in his blood, and gasping on the ground, 
Thyself in bondage by the victor kept ! 

The chief, the father, and the captive wept. 

An English muse is touch'd with gen’rous woe, 

And in th’ unhappy man forgets the foe. 

Greatly distress’d ! thy loud complaints forbear, 

Blame not the turns of fate, and chance of war ; 

Give thy brave foes their due, nor blush to own, 

The fatal field by such great leaders won, 

The field whence fam’d Eugenio bore away 
Only the second honours of the day. 

With floods of gore that from the vanquish’d fell 
The marshes stagnate, and the rivers swell. 

Mountains of slain lie heap’d upon the ground, 

Or midst the roarings of the Danube drown'd ; 

Whole captive hosts the conquerour detains 
In painful bondage and inglorious chains ; 

Ev'n those who ’scape the fetters and the sword, 

Nor seek the fortunes of a happier lord, 

Their raging king dishonours, to complete 
Marlbro’s great work, and finish the defeat. 

From Memminghen’s high domes and Ausburg’s walls 
The distant battle drives th’ insulting Gauls ; 

Free’d by the terrour of the victor’s name . 

The rescu’d states his great protection claim ; 

Whilst Ulm th’ approach of her deliv’rer waits, 

And longs to open her obsequious gates. 

The hero’s breast still swells with great designs, 

In ev’ry thought the tow’ring genius shines : 

If to the foe his dreadful course he bends, 

O’er the wide continent his march extends ; 

If sieges in his lab’ring thoughts are form’d, 

Camps are assaulted, and an army storm’d; 

If to the fight his active soul is bent, 

The fate of Europe turns on its event. 

What distant land, what region can afford 
An action worthy lus victorious sword ? 

Where will he next the flying Gaul defeat, 

To make the series of his toils complete ? 




216 


POEMS. 


Where the swoln Rhine rushing with all its force 
Divides the hostile nations in its course, 

While each contracts its bounds, or wider grows. 
Enlarg’d or straiten’d as the river flows, 

On Gallia’s side a mighty bulwark stands 
That all the wide extended plain commands $ 
Twice, since the war was kindled, has it tried 
The victor’s rage, and twice has chang’d its side ; 
As oft whole armies, with the prize o’erjoy’d. 

Have the long summer on its walls employ’d. 
Hither our mighty chief his arms directs, 

Hence future triumphs from the war expects ; 

And, though the dog-star had its course begun, 
Carries his arms still nearer to the sun : 

Fix’d on the glorious action, he forgets 
The change of seasons, and increase of heats : 

No toils are painful that can danger show,. 

No climes unlovely, that contain a foe. 

The roving Gaul, to his own bounds restrain’d. 
Learns to encamp within his native land, 

But soon as the victorious host he spies, 

From hill to hill, from stream to stream he flies : 
Such dire impressions in his heart remain 
Of Marlbro’s sword, and Hocstet’s fatal plain : 
in vain Britannia’s mighty chief besets 
Their shady coverts, and obscure retreats ; 

They fly the conquerour’s approaching fame, 

That bears the force of armies in his name. 

Austria’s young monarch, whose imperial sway 
vSceptres and thrones are destin’d to obey. 

Whose boasted ancestry so high extends 
That in the pagan gods his lineage ends, 

Comes from afar, in gratitude to own 
The great supporter of his father’s throne : 

What tides of glory to his bosom ran, 

Clasp’d in th’ embraces of the godlike man ? 

How were his eyes with pleasing wonder fixt 
To see such fire with so much sweetness mixt. 

Such easy greatness, such a graceful port, 

So turn’d and finish’d for the camp or court ! 


POEMS. 


21 


Achilles thus was form’d with every grace, 

And Nireus shone but in the second place ; 

Thus the great father of almighty Rome 
(Divinely flush’d with an immortal bloom 
That Cytherea’s fragrant breath bestow’d) 

In all the charms of his bright mother glow’d. 

The royal youth by Marlbro’s presence charm’d, 
Taught by his counsels, by his actions warm’d, 

On Landau with redoubled fury falls, 

Discharges all his thunder on its walls, 

O’er mines ancf caves of death provokes the fight, 
And learns to conquer in the hero’s sight. 

The British chief, for mighty toils renown’d. 
Increas’d in titles, and with conquests crown’d, 

To Belgian coasts his tedious march renews, 

And the long windings of the Rhine pursues. 
Clearing its borders from usurping foes, 

And blest by rescu’d nations as he goes. 

Treves fears no more, freed from its dire alarms ; 
And Traerbach feels the terrour of his arms ; 
Seated on rocks her proud foundations shake, 
While Marlbro’ presses to the bold attack. 

Plants all his batt’ries, bids his cannon roar, 

And shows how Landau might have fall’n before. 
Scar’d at his near approach, great Louis fears 
Vengeance reserv’d for his declining years. 

Forgets his thirst of universal sway, 

And scarce can teach his subjects to obey ; 

His arms he finds on vain attempts employ’d, 

Th’ ambitious projects for his race destroy’d, 

The work of ages sunk in one campaign, 

And lives of millions sacrific’d in vain. 

Such are th’ effects of Anna’s royal cares : 

By her, Britannia, great in foreign wars, 

Ranges through nations, wheresoe’er disjoin’d, 
Without the wonted aid of sea and wind. 

By her th’ unfetter’d Ister’s states are free. 

And taste the sweets of English liberty. 

But who can tell the joys of those that lie 
Beneath the constant influence of her eye ! 

T 2 




218 


POEMS. 


Whilst in diffusive show’rs her bounties fall 
Like heav’n’s indulgence, and descend on all; 

Secure the happy, succour the distrest, 

Make ev’ry subject glad, and a whole people blest. 

Thus would I fain Britannia’s wars rehearse, 

In the smooth records of a faithful verse : 

That, if such numbers can o’er time prevail. 

May tell posterity the wond’rous tale 
When actions, unadorn’d, are faint and weak. 

Cities and countries must be taught to speak : 

Gods may descend in factions from the skies, 

And rivers from their oozy beds arise ; 

Fiction may deck the truth with spurious rays, 

And round the hero cast a borrow’d blaze. 

Marlbro’s exploits appear divinely bright, 

And proudly shine in their own native light ; 

Rais’d of themselves, their genuine charms they boast. 
And those who paint ’em truest, praise ’em most. 

EPILOGUE 

TO THE 

BRITISH ENCHANTERS* 

WHEN Orphc-us tun’d his lyre with pleasing woe. 
Rivers forgot to run, and winds to blow, 

While list’ning forests cover’d as he play’d, 

The soft musician in a moving shade. 

That this night’s strains the same success may .find 
The force of magick is to musick join’d : 

Where sounding strings and artful voices fail, 

The charming rod and mutter’d spells prevail. 

Let sage Urganda wave the circling wand 
On barren mountains or a waste of sand, 

* A dramatick Poem written by the Lord Lansdown. 


POEMS. 


219 


The desavt smiles, the woods begin to grow, 

The birds to warble, and the springs to flow. 

The same dull sights in the same landscape mix’d, 
Scenes of still life and points for ever fix’d, 

A tedious pleasure on the mind bestow, 

And pall the sense with one continued show : 

But as our two magicians try their skill. 

The vision varies, though the place stands still. 

While the same spot its gaudy form renews, 

Shifting the prospects to a thousand views, 

Thus, without unity of place transgress’d, 

Th’ Enchanter turns the critick to a jest. 

But howsoe’er to please your wand’ring eyes, 

Bright objects disappear and brighter rise : 

There’s none can make amends for lost delight. 

While from that circle we divert your sight. 

— ■ <~> mace 

PROLOGUE 

TO THE 

TENDER HUSBAND.* 

IN the first rise and infancy of farce, 

When fools were many, and when plays were scarce, 
The raw, unpractis’d authours could, with ease, 

A young and unexperienc’d audience please : 

No single character had e’er been shown 
But the whole herd of fops was all their own : 

Rich in originals, they set to view, 

In every piece a coxcomb that was new. 

But now our British theatre can boast 
Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host ! 

Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows 

Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and beaux $ 

* A Comedy written bj Sn Richard Sieei, 




220 


POEMS. 


Rough country knights are found of every shire ; 

Of every fashion gentle fops appear ; 

And punks of different characters we meet, 

As frequent on the stage as in the pit. 

Our modern wits are forc’d to pick and cull 
And here and there by chance glean up a fool: 

Long ere they find the necessary spark, 

They search the town, and beat about the park : 

To all his most frequented haunts resort, 

Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court. 

As love of pleasure or of place invites : 

And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White’s. 

Howe’er, to do you right, the present age 
Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage, 

That scorn the paths their dull forefathers trod, 

And won’t be blockheads in the common road. 

Do but survey this crowded-house to-night : 

Here’s still encouragement for those that write. 

Our Authour to divert his friends to-day, 

Stocks with variety of fools his play ; 

A nd that there may be something gay and new, 

Two ladies-errant has expos’d to view : 

The first a damsel travell’d in romance ; 

The other more refin’d, she comes from France : 

Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger. 
And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger. 

■ O gJWWgs* 

HORACE, Ode III. Book III. 

Augustus had a design to rebuild Troy, and make it the 
Metropolis of the Roman Empire : having closeted sev¬ 
eral Senators on the project , Horace is supposed to have 
written the following Ode on this occasion . 

THE man resolv’d and steady to his trust, 

Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just, 

May the rude rabble’s insolence despise, 

Their senseless clamours and tumultuous cries $ 


POEMS. 


221 


The tyrant’s fierceness he beguiles, 

And the stern brow, and the harsh voice defies, 

And with superior greatness smiles. 

Not the rough whirlwind that deforms 
Adria’s* black gulf, and vexes it with storms. 

The stubborn virtue of his soul can move ; 

Not the red arm of angry Jove, 

That flings the thunder from the sky, 

And gives it rage to roar, and strength to fly. 

Should the whole frame of nature round him break, 
In ruin and confusion hurl’d, 

He, unconcern’d, would hear the mighty crack, 

And stand secure amidst a falling world. 

Such were the godlike arts that led 
Bright Pollux to the blest abodes ; 

Such did for great Alcides plead, 

And gain’d a place among the gods. 

Where now Augustus, mix’d with heroes, lies. 

And to his lips the nectar bowl applies ; 

His ruddy lips the purple tincture show, 

And with immortal stains divinely glow. 

By arts like these did young Lyaeus rise ; 

His tigers drew him to the skies, 

Wild from the desart and unbroke ; > 

In vain they foam’d, in vain they star’d. 

In vain their eyes with fury glar’d ; 

He tam’d ’em to the lash, and bent ’em to the yoke. 

Such were the paths that Rome’s great founder trod. 
When in a whirlwind snatch’d on high, 

He shook off dull mortality, 

And lost the monarch in the god. 

.Bright Juno then her awful silence broke. 

And thus th’ assembled deities bespoke. 

Troy, says the goddess, perjur’d Troy has felt 
The dire effects of her proud tyrant’s guilt ; 

The tow’ring pile and soft abodes, 

Wall’d by the hand of servile gods, 

Now spreads its ruins all around, 

And lies inglorious on the ground. 


222 


POEMS, 


An umpire, partial and unjust, 1 

And a lewd woman’s impious lust, > 

Lay heavy on her head, and sunk her to the dust. J 

Since false Laomedon’s tyrannick sway. 

That durst defraud th’ immortals of their pay, 

Her guardian gods renounc’d their patronage, 

Nor would the fierce invading foe repel ; 

To my resentments, and Minerva’s rage. 

The guilty king and the whole people fell. 

And now the lo tg protracted wars are o’er, 

The soft adult’rer shines no more ; 

No more does Hector’s force the Trojans shield, 

That drove whole armies back, and singly clear’d the 
field. 

My vengeance sated, I at length resign 
To Mars his offspring of the Trojan line : 

Advanc’d to godhead let him rise, 

And take his station in the skies ; 

There entertain his ravish’d sight 
With scenes of glory, fields of light ; 

Quaff with the gods immortal wine. 

And see adoring nations crowd his shrine : 

The thin remains of Troy’s afflicted host, 

In distant realms may seats unenvied find, 

And flourish on a foreign coast ; 

But far be Rome from Troy disjoin’d, 

Remov’d by seas, from the disastrous shore, 

May endless billows rise between, and storms unnum¬ 
ber’d roar. 

Still let the curs’d, detested place, 

Where Priam lies, and Priam’s faithless race, t 
Be cover’d o’er with weeds, and hid in grass, J 
There let the wanton flocks unguarded stray j 
Or, while the lonely shepherd sings, 

Amidst the mighty ruins play, 

And frisk upon the tombs of kings. 

May Tigers there and all the savage kind, 

Sad solitary haunts, and silent desarts find j 
In gloomy vaults, and nooks of palaces, 

May th’ unmolested lioness 


POEMS, 


223 








Her brinded whelps securely lay, 

Or couch’d in dreadful slumbers waste the day. 

While Troy in heaps of ruins lies, 

Rome and the Roman capitol shall rise ; 

Th’ illustrious exiles unconfin’d 

Shall triumph far and near, and rule mankind. 

In vain the sea’s intruding tide 
Europe from Afric shall divide, 

And part the sever’d world in two : 

Through Afric’s sands their triumphs they shall spread, 
And the long train of victories pursue 
To Nile’s yet undiscover’d head. 

Riches the hardy soldier shall despise, 

And look on gold with undesiring eyes, 

Nor the disbowell’d earth explore 
In search of the forbidden ore ; 

Those glitt’ring ills conceal’d within the mine, 

Shall lie untouch’d, and innocently shine. 

To the last bounds that nature sets, 

The piercing colds and sultry heats, 

The godlike race shall spread their arms ; 

Now fill the polar circle with alarms, 

Till storms and tempest their pursuits confine, 

Now sweat for conquest underneath the line. 

This only law the victor shall restrain, 

On these conditions shall he reign; 

If none his guilty hand employ, 

To build again a second Troy; 

If none the rash design pursue, 

Nor tempt the vengeance-of the gods anew. 

A curse there cleaves to the devoted place, 

That shall the new foundations rase ; 

Greece shall in mutual leagues conspire 
To storm the rising town with fire, 

And at their armies’ head myself will show 
What Juno, urg’d to all her rage, can do. 

Thrice should Apollo’s self the city raise, 

And line it round with walls of brass, 

Thrice should my fav’rite Greeks h>s works confound* 
And hew the shining fabrick to the ground; 







224? 


POEMS. 


Thrice should her captive dames to Greece return, 
And their dead sons and slaughter’d husbands mourn. 

But hold, my muse, forbear thy tow’ring flight, 
Nor bring the secrets of the gods to light : 

In vain would thy presumptuous verse 
Th’ immortal rhetorick rehearse ; 

The mighty strains, in lyrick numbers bound, 

Forget their majesty, and lose their sound. 


—-s £>00MWf' 


TO SIR GODFREY KNELEER 

ON HIS 

PICTURE OF THE KING. 

KNELLER, with silence and surprise. 

We see Britannia’s monarch rise, 

A godlike form, by thee display’d 
In all the force of light and shade ; 

And, aw’d by thy delusive hand, 

As in the presence-chamber stand. 

The magick of thy art calls forth 
His secret soul and hidden worth, 

His probity and mildness shows, 

His care of friends, and scorn of foes ; 

In ev’ry stroke, in ev’ry line, 

Does some exalted virtue shine, 

And Albion’s happiness we trace 
Through all the features of his face. 

O may I live to hail the day, 

When the glad nations shall survey 
Their sov’reign through his wide command, 

Passing in progress o’er the land ! 

Each heart shall bend, and ev’ry voice 
In loud applauding shouts rejoice, 


POEMS. 


2 25 


Whilst all his gracious aspect praise, 

And crowds grow loyal as they gaze. 

This image on the medal placed, 

With its bright round of titles grac’d, 

And stamp’d on British coins shall live ; 

To richest ores the value give : 

Or wrought within the curious mould, 

Shape and adorn the running gold. 

To bear this form, the genial sun 
Has daily, since his course begun, 

Rejoic’d the metal to refine ! 

And ripen’d the Peruvian mine. 

Thou, Kneller, long with noble pride, 
(The foremost of thy art,) hast vied 
With nature in’a gen’rous strife, 

And touch’d the canvass into life. 

Thy pencilJaas, by monarchs sought, 

From reign to reign in ermine wrought, 

And, in their robes of state, array’d, 

The kings of half an age display’d. 

Here swarthy Charles appears, and there 
His brother with dejected air ; 

Triumphant Nassau here we find, 

And with him bright Maria join’d 
There Anna, great as when she sent 
Her armies through the continent, 

Ere yet her hero was disgrac’d ; 

O may fam’d Brunswick be the last, 
(Though Heav’n should with my wish agree, 
And long preserve thy art in thee,) 

The last, the happiest British king. 

Whom thou shalt paint, or I shall sing ? 

Wise Phidias, thus his skill to prove. 
Through many a god advanc’d to Jove, 

And taught the polish’d rocks to shine 
With airs and lineaments divine ; 

Till Greece amaz’d, and half afraid, 

Th’ assembled Deities survey’d. 

Great Pan, who wont to chase the fair. 
And lov’d the spreading oak, was there ; 

U 




POEMS, 




Old Saturn too, with upcast eyes 
Beheld his abdicated skies ; 

And mighty Mars, for war renown'd, 

In adamantine armour frown'd. 

By him the childless goddess rose, 
Minerva, studious to compose 
Her twisted threads ; the web she strung. 
And o'er a loom of marble hung : 

Thetis the troubled ocean's queen, 
Match'd with a mortal, next was seen 
(Reclining on a fun'ral urn) 

Her short-liv'd darling son to mourn. 

The last was he, whose thunder slew 
The Titan race, a rebel crew, 

That from a hundred hills, allied 
In impious leagues, their king defied. 

This wonder of the sculptor’s hand 
Produc’d, his art was at a stand : 

For who would hope new fame to raise, 
Or risk his well-establish’d praise, 

That, his high genius to approve, 

Had drawn a George, or carv'd a Jove ! 


FINIS. 










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A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 


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